He was a middle-aged, medium-sized, unobtrusive sort of man, with the stamp of upper-class conservatism on his clothing and features and he lay sprawled on his back on a sidewalk in Miami Beach, Florida with a bullet-hole between his eyes.
There was no trace of identification on his body excepting a folded and well-thumbed newspaper clipping containing a highly-colored account of some of Michael Shayne�s most notable cases, and a notation indicating that he had an early appointment with the private detective in his Miami office the next morning.
So it was perfectly natural that Peter Painter, aggressive Chief of Detectives of Miami Beach and an avowed enemy of Mike Shayne�s, should haul the rangy redhead across Biscayne Bay at midnight to identify the murder victim.
And it was a foregone conclusion that Painter would angrily disbelieve Shayne when he looked at the dead man and denied having seen him before and also flatly denied having a nest-day appointment with the corpse or with anyone else.
Preferring to believe that Shayne was refusing to make an identification for reasons of his own, Painter acidly ordered him away from the scene and back to his own side of the Bay, and to keep his nose out of the case from that moment onward.
So, of course, from that moment onward Mike Shayne is into the case up to his neck � one jump ahead of Peter Painter for a tumultuous twenty-four hours as action-packed as any similar period in the private detective�s past. It�s the redhead�s 31st Case to be chronicled by Brett Halliday, and one of his most exciting and puzzling to date.
Dedicated to Chloe Dresser
Because she asked me to
The hotel lobby was large and brightly lighted, and small groups and couples stood about chatting animatedly as he slid unobtrusively through the revolving door from the street and stepped to one side to peer about nearsightedly.
He was medium height, with rather full cheeks that were quite pallid in contrast to the suntanned countenances of the majority of the other guests. He wore a dark gray business suit and carefully polished black shoes and a neat, black bow-tie that also contrasted strongly with the white dinner jackets and gaily colored sports attire gathered in the lobby of the Hotel Donchester at the height of Miami Beach�s winter season.
No one paid him the slightest heed as he settled rimless glasses on his nose and surveyed the room studiously. He swallowed after a moment and touched the tip of his left forefinger to his short, graying mustache, and a curious expression flitted across his face momentarily. It might have been a look of relief or of disappointment.
He removed his glasses and placed them carefully in a metal case that snapped shut, then crossed the lobby to a wide desk with a big clock behind it whose hands pointed to 7:40.
An austere, frock-coated clerk behind the desk regarded him with studious disinterest. He cleared his throat and said, �Three-oh-eight, please.�
He laid both palms flat on the polished mahogany surface of the desk as the clerk turned and reached into a numbered cubicle for his key. His blue eyes squinted slightly as he said, �No, ah, messages for me?�
�Sorry, sir. Nothing tonight.� The clerk slid the key across to him and he lifted his right hand to cover it and began deprecatorily, �I wasn�t really expecting anything tonight, but then...�
The clerk�s gaze slid past him and he smiled unctuously and exclaimed in a warm voice, �Good evening, Mr. Baxter. You�re looking exceedingly well.�
He turned away from the desk clutching his key and made his way to the bank of elevators at the rear.
He stopped in front of one of the elevators where a long bronze hand swung slowly to the left in an arc indicating the floors as the cage descended. A group of three young people stood in front of him laughing and chatting gaily, and just to his left was a couple no younger than himself who appeared to be more than a little drunk and very happy about it, with their arms tightly about each other�s waists and their flushed faces pressed together while the man whispered in the woman�s ear. It was something obscene that was whispered, he was certain of that from the way she twisted against her companion and giggled, and he compressed his rather full lips primly and stared away from them, straight ahead, until the elevator door opened and the occupants got out, and he waited there until the others entered before stepping inside and facing front and telling the operator, �Three, please.�
He could hear the others whispering and giggling behind him as the elevator went up three floors and stopped. He stepped out into an empty corridor and went down it stiffly with the key held ready in his right hand.
When he switched on the overhead light the hotel room was empty, as impersonal as any modern hotel room can be. He closed the door firmly behind him and double-locked it; and then slid the end of the short brass chain into its slot.
There was his strapped pigskin bag on the luggage holder across the room, and a slight shiver ran over him as he stood just inside the door. The shiver was not from cold. The two west windows of the room stood open, overlooking Biscayne Bay, and a balmy breeze fluttered the white curtains at the windows.
The shiver came from within, from something that had lived within him for many years. It was this damnable aloneness. This aloneness among people.
He unbuttoned his jacket and slid it from his shoulders and went across to a closet where he hung it meticulously on a wooden hanger. Then he unsnapped his bow-tie and removed it, laid it on the dresser as he went by, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and stood in front of the open windows looking over the shimmering surface of Biscayne Bay to the jagged and boldly lighted skyline of Miami.
He stood like that for several minutes and then he sighed deeply and turned back into the room to sit on one of the neat twin beds and lift the telephone from the table between them.
He said, �Room Service, please,� and then, �This is Mr. Carson in Three-oh-eight. I�d like a martini, please. Ah, very dry, if you don�t mind.�
He replaced the receiver and sat erect on the bed, placing one hand on each knee with black-shod feet firmly on the floor parallel beneath him. His expression was mildly contemplative now. He looked like a small-town banker, or perhaps a minor executive in a large insurance agency. He blinked several times and a faint smile quirked his lips and they moved slightly, forming unspoken words.
He got up hastily when there was a tap at the door, hurried around the beds to silently unfasten the chain and undo the double lock with a faint click.
He opened the door and stepped back to let a tall and beautifully uniformed bellboy enter holding a small round tray balanced on the flat of his right palm with a single long-stemmed cocktail glass in the exact center of it.
The bellboy said, �Good evening, sir,� and turned to his left to deposit the tray on a glass-topped table.
He said, �And a good evening to you,� enthusiastically, and stepped forward, rubbing his pudgy hands together and looking at the cocktail delightedly. �It is, ah, very dry, I trust?�
The bellboy said, �I guess so,� indifferently, �if that�s the way you ordered it.� He had a slip of paper on a salver and he offered it with a pencil.
After signing �W. D. Carson� in precise handwriting, the occupant of the room jangled coins in his pants pocket and said jovially, �Here�s one perhaps you�d like to tell your bartender. There was this customer went into a bar and ordered a martini. Very dry, you see. And he told the bartender he had a special recipe for martinis and he�d like to...�
The bellboy was waiting with a pained expression on his smooth young face. He looked down pointedly at the empty salver in his hand and said, �If that�s not dry enough, Mister...�
�Oh, I�m sure it�s perfectly all right. It looks delicious as a matter of fact.� A hand came out of his pocket hastily and he dropped one quarter, and then after the most momentary hesitation, a second one on top of the signed slip. �I was just going to tell you...�
The bellboy said, �Thank you, sir,� and wheeled about with military precision and went out of the room.
The tentative smile went away from Mr. Carson�s lips as the door closed firmly and he was alone again. He relocked the door and refastened the chain and sipped from the martini glass, realizing at once that there was more vermouth than gin in the mixture.
He set the glass back when it was half empty, crossed to unstrap his bag and lift out a freshly laundered shirt, a pair of silver-backed hairbrushes and a toothbrush. He laid the shirt on the foot of the bed, arranged the brushes neatly on the dresser and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth.
Returning, he rummaged in the suitcase beneath a pair of carefully folded pajamas and lifted out a folded newspaper clipping. He sat on the bed again and unfolded the clipping, extracting a small sheet from a memorandum pad which he laid aside while he read every word of the fine print. He nodded and compressed his lips with satisfaction, folded the memo sheet back into the clipping and crossed to the closet to insert it in the inner pocket of his jacket. He grimaced slightly as he paused beside the cocktail with his hand outstretched, glanced at his watch and found it to be almost half past eight.
He left the half of the insipid cocktail standing there as a mute reproach to whoever cleaned his room, removed his shirt and went into the bathroom to wash hands and face carefully.
Fifteen minutes later he left his room and went down the corridor to the elevator. In the crowded lobby, he unobtrusively slid his room-key across the mahogany counter and went out into the Miami Beach night without speaking to anyone or being spoken to.
He walked three blocks through the streets thronged with holidaying sunseekers, withdrawn from those whom he brushed past, wrapped in the mantle of his aloneness until he reached the marquee of the Chez Dumont where he turned in.
The small foyer of the popular Beach night-spot was crowded with couples and small parties waiting for tables, and he insinuated his way past them to a harried maitre d� guarding the dining room entrance with a velvet rope while he consulted a penciled list of reservations.
He said to the maitre d�, �Mr. Carson, please. I have a table reserved for nine o�clock,� glancing significantly at his wristwatch as he spoke.
The maitre d�, checked his list and sighed unhappily. Lone male diners at the Chez Dumont did not represent their best source of income, but the reservation was undoubtedly in order. He held the end of the rope back to allow Mr. Carson to pass, snapping his fingers at a passing waiter, �Number Thirty-eight for this gentleman.�
Mr. Carson threaded his way through the crowded dining room behind the waiter to a tiny table in the rear where he was squeezed in between two other tiny tables each occupied by a young couple who had no eyes for the lonely man between them.
Mr. Carson sat erect and placed his glasses on his nose and studied the room carefully until his waiter returned with a glass of water and a menu.
He removed his glasses and said precisely, �I would like to start with a martini, please. Very dry, if you don�t mind. Which reminds me of a story you might like to repeat to your bartender,� he hurried on breathlessly, but the waiter had already turned away, and he let the final words subside into a sigh.
But he was determinedly prepared when the waiter returned with his cocktail, and as it was being placed before him he went on:
�It�s about this customer who went into a bar and wanted a very dry martini, see? And he told the bartender he had his own recipe for making one.�
The waiter stood in front of him with a folded napkin over his arm and a look of mild impatience on his face, but Mr. Carson held his gaze and spoke rapidly with a strangely fey sort of exuberance:
�He said to put three cubes of ice in a mixing glass and then pour in three full ounces of gin. Then stir it twice with a spoon and lean over the glass and say �Vermouth�, not too loudly, and then stir it once more and pour it out.
�Well, the bartender shrugged and went ahead as directed. But when he leaned over and said, �Vermouth�, the customer said, �Oh my God! you�ve ruined that one. You said �Vermouth� too loud.�
Mr. Carson smiled happily as he concluded, and added, �I just thought you might enjoy repeating it to your bartender.�
The waiter said, �Sure. You want to order now?�
Mr. Carson said crisply, �In a moment, please,� and lifted the large menu to study it carefully.
He chose jellied madril�ne and sweetbreads
The waiter served his meal with grave dignity and in utter silence, and Mr. Carson ate with pleasure and also in silence. He indulged in
But he was well-satisfied when he left the restaurant at precisely five minutes before eleven o�clock. Perhaps the waiter had heard the martini joke before and that was why he hadn�t appreciated it fully. But the young couple occupying the table at his left had laughed. He was certain of it. Particularly the young man. They had whispered together afterward and Mr. Carson had caught a word or so which convinced him that he was explaining the point of Mr. Carson�s little joke to his female companion.
The sidewalk outside the Chez Dumont was almost empty of pedestrains when Mr. Carson emerged. He hesitated a moment under the neon light before turning to the left.
The figure of a man detached itself from a shadowed doorway directly across the street and cut casually and diagonally across the pavement to intercept him, but Mr. Carson did not notice anything.
Outside the restaurant he was alone again, and fear walked with him as it had for so many years. So many long and dreary years.
But there had been that brief moment in the Chez Dumont when he
The man who was crossing the street diagonally behind him reached the curb at his right just as he passed into the shadow of a low-spread coconut palm. There were no pedestrians within half a block, and the lights of the nearest car were two blocks distant.
He heard his name uttered sharply and he stopped and turned his head toward the voice.
A lance of flame licked through the shadows and a round hole appeared in the exact center of his forehead. He sank to the sidewalk in a crumpled heap, and for the first time in many years he wasn�t afraid any more.
In judicial tones, Michael Shayne said, �Well... if you insist, angel.� Leaning comfortably back on the sofa in Lucy Hamilton�s apartment, he stretched out a long arm for the uncorked cognac bottle and lifted it by the neck to tilt it over the empty wine-glass on the coffee table in front of him.
Lucy Hamilton said promptly, �I don�t.�
He paused with the bottle half-tilted, turning to look at her with ragged red eyebrows lifted. �You don�t
�I don�t insist.�
The three vertical lines in the middle of his forehead deepened. �You don�t? You mean you�re not twisting my arm to induce me to have one more drink before I take off and leave you to your lonely bedchamber?�
�I�m not twisting your arm, Michael Shayne. Frankly, that lonely bedchamber appeals to me right now.� Lucy leaned back against the cushions at her end of the sofa and ostentatiously pretended to stifle a yawn. �Pour yourself another slug of my liquor if you insist, but don�t pretend it�s on my account.�
The redhead hesitated a long moment with the bottle poised over his glass. Then he tilted it higher until the four-ounce glass was filled to the brim with amber fluid, sighed and set the bottle down. �First time I ever knew you to begrudge me one for the road,� he said in a deeply injured tone.
�I don�t begrudge it, Michael.� An impish smile danced over Lucy Hamilton�s face as she lifted one hand to brush the brown curls back. �I�m just not twisting your arm. That�s all.� She closed her lips firmly and there was a little silence between them while Shayne scowlingly sipped from his glass.
Lucy broke the silence by saying brightly, �It just came to me all of a sudden that maybe I�ve twisted your arm too often. That, maybe, you�ve sort of come to depend on me to do the insisting. That�s not so good, Michael?�
He turned to regard her incredulously, �Isn�t it?�
She said levelly, �You know it isn�t. Drink up and let�s call it a night.�
He nodded slowly and his voice became flat. �I guess I see what you mean, Lucy.� He tossed off the rest of his drink and reached for the chaser of ice water. �It�s been a very pleasant evening, Miss Hamilton,� he told her. �Thank you for giving me the pleasure of your company at dinner and for this brief interlude afterward.�
In a stifled voice, Lucy Hamilton replied, �You�re welcome, I�m sure.�
Her telephone rang.
Both of them swung their heads around to look at the instrument on its stand across the room.
�You answer it, Michael,� Lucy�s voice crackled.
He shook his red head from side to side. �It�s your telephone, angel. How would it look for a man to answer your phone this time of night?� He glanced at his watch as he spoke. It was ten minutes after eleven.
As the phone continued to ring monotonously, Lucy said, �You know it�s for you. Some damsel in distress. No one ever calls
�That�s still no reason why you shouldn�t answer it,� said Shayne stiffly. �You
�For eight hours a day, Michael Shayne.� Lucy�s voice rose angrily over the ninth ring of the telephone. �That�s enough. Get yourself a couple more secretaries if you expect twenty-four hour service.�
The telephone stopped ringing in the middle of her final sentence, and her last words sounded shrill in the abrupt silence.
Shayne shrugged and slowly got up. He said, �I�m sorry, angel. I think it was your idea that I should give this number to the hotel in case an important call came through and I wasn�t in. In fact,� he went on, spacing his words and making them more distinct, �I think I recall that it wasn�t so very long ago a call came through about this time from a friend of
�I know, Michael, I...� Lucy�s voice was almost inaudible. She got up from the sofa, smoothing her quilted dressing gown down in front. She went to the phone, saying quietly, �I�m feeling bitchy tonight.� She lifted it and dialled a number, turned her head to smile wanly at Shayne, who smiled back gladly.
Into the mouthpiece, she said, �Pete? Lucy Hamilton. We wondered if you just tried to call my number, Pete? Mr. Shayne and I were coming in the door when the phone stopped ringing.�
She listened a moment, then nodded her tousled brown curls and turned, holding the instrument out to Shayne with a mock curtsey. �For you, Mr. Shayne.�
He took two long strides across the room and took it from her hand, sliding his right arm about her slim waist and holding her tightly as he said, �That you, Pete? What�s up?�
The night clerk at his apartment hotel said, �Hello, Mr. Shayne. Glad I caught you. There�s this dame, see? All upset and asking for you. She�s not much on looks and I tried to stall her off, but she�s hellbent she�s gotta see you tonight.�
Shayne said, �Is that so, Pete? Not like
Lucy drew in her breath audibly and tried to twist away from his encircling arm.
Pete said uncertainly, �What�s that you said, Mr. Shayne? I didn�t say nothing about any Marilyn. I said there�s this dame you wouldn�t give a second look at, but she�s all upset and raising hell to see you so I said I�d see what I could do.�
�Platinum, huh?� Shayne said enthusiastically into the mouthpiece, tightening his arm about Lucy�s waist. �Sounds pretty young, Pete. But you know what I always say... if they�re blonde enough and passionate enough, and, u-m-m...�
�
He turned his head to grin at her and said happily, �That�s right, angel.� He turned back to the phone, �Acquiescent enough, Pete. She seem that way to you?�
�Look here, Mr. Shayne, I sure dunno what you�re talking about,� said Pete forlornly. �There�s this... this woman, see? Looks like a smalltown housewife and acts like one, too. Nothing worth you coming home for. But I thought I�d best let you know...�
�You bet, Pete,� said Shayne heartily. �I certainly wouldn�t want to pass up a combination like that. Tell her to keep some of her clothes on until I can get there.�
He hung up and turned to grin wickedly at Lucy Hamilton who was slumped down on the sofa again regarding him balefully.
�Sorry, angel,� he said blithely, �business.� He moved toward the door, reaching for his hat on a low table. �Some old hag from Pete�s description, but a private detective is like a doctor... on call at all hours.�
�Like a horse at stud,� she gritted between her teeth. �Hurry up so you�ll get there in time to tear the last of her clothes off.�
Shayne grinned happily and said, �The thought gives me wings.� He kissed his hand and blew her a kiss as he went out the door in a pretended rush, and then slowed and his face became somber as he went down the one flight from her apartment.
Maybe he was a damned fool. Maybe women did take that sort of thing seriously. Maybe Lucy was sitting up there behind a closed door crying her eyes out. Maybe he ought to go back and explain to her...
Explain
Why should he have to explain those things to Lucy Hamilton? Didn�t she
So he kept on going out the front door and to his car parked at the curb. He got in and drove away with an abashed scowl on his face. If Lucy hadn�t been funny about that last drink he would not have kidded over the telephone about the appearance of the woman waiting at his hotel. He wished now that he hadn�t kidded, but after all it was just clean fun and Lucy would realize that tomorrow if he had the chance to introduce his new client and let her see for herself what she looked like.
He drove to Biscayne Boulevard and south, past Flagler Street, turned to the right and then to the left to park beside the apartment hotel on the river where he had maintained a suite of rooms for more years than he liked to remember.
He got out and went in a side entrance, passed a stairway leading up and went on into the lobby from the back because he didn�t know whether Pete had sent the woman up to his suite or whether she was waiting in the lobby.
His stride slowed and he stiffened a trifle when he recognized the plainclothes detective from Miami Beach lounging against the counter talking out of the side of his mouth to Pete. A swift glance around the lobby showed it empty except for the two men.
They both saw him at the same time and Pete�s face brightened as he called out, �Hi, Mr. Shayne. I was just telling this gentleman that I expected you soon.�
�Gentleman?� said Shayne ironically. �You�re coming up in the world, Matson.� He stopped at the counter and looked at the Beach dick with lifted eyebrows and without offering his hand. �A little off your beat, aren�t you?�
�Painter wants you, Shayne.� Matson was a burly man with heavy black eyebrows and yellowed teeth.
Shayne said, �Just like that, huh?�
�Just like that,� Matson agreed. �Let�s go.� He started to turn toward the front exit, but hesitated when the rangy redhead dropped his left elbow onto the counter and got a cigarette from his shirt pocket without giving any indication of following him.
He said gruffly, �Painter�s in a hurry, Shayne. Let�s not horse around.�
�Petey�s always in a hurry,� said Shayne mildly. �He was born in a hurry.� He struck a match and held it to his cigarette, slowly expelled smoke from both nostrils. �Mind telling me what it�s all about?�
�I don�t know. Just that he wants you over on the Beach fast.�
�Petey�s wanted lots of things in the past that he hasn�t gotten.�
Matson sighed and turned back stolidly to put a big hand on Shayne�s arm. �Don�t make it tough on both of us.�
Shayne shrugged his hand off. �I�m not, Matson. Just on you. Why should I come running when Painter whistles?�
�It�s important, Shayne. Real important.� Beads of sweat stood on Matson�s forehead. �I gotta take you over.�
�You mean it�s a pinch?� asked Shayne without much interest.
�If you make it that way.� The Beach detective spoke doggedly. �But I�m asking you instead.� His voice became plaintive. �Real nice, I�m asking you.�
Shayne said, �Hell, why didn�t you put it that way in the first place?� He looked across the counter at Pete. �I guess that other matter can wait for half an hour?�
�Sure, Mr. Shayne.� Pete jerked his chin significantly upward to indicate Shayne�s apartment. �I�ll let the party know you been delayed.�
Shayne said, �I�ll call you if it�s more than half an hour.� He crossed the lobby with Matson to a Beach patrol car parked in front of the hotel and settled himself comfortably in the front seat.
Neither man spoke until they were on the Boulevard headed toward the County Causeway, and then Matson said gruffly:
�I honest don�t know what it is, Shayne. I was cruising when I got the call on my radio to come over to your hotel and pick you up. Bring you to the corner of Sixteenth and South Bay Drive in a hurry.�
They were on the Causeway now, headed east across the Bay, and the patrol car picked up speed swiftly until it was doing seventy-five on the outer of the three lanes of traffic.
Shayne spun his cigarette over the side and yawned. He said, �It�s not your fault that Painter rubs me the wrong way.� He remained silent the rest of the way, sat up straighter and peered ahead with interest as Matson slowed passing the marquee of the Chez Dumont and they saw the spotlights of half a dozen police cars and an ambulance blocking the street ahead.
Matson pulled in behind the other cars and he and Shayne got out together. They pushed forward into a circle of officers congregated about the body of a dead man lying on his back, bright lights glaring on plump, pallid cheeks and accentuating the round hole in his forehead.
Two men knelt beside the body, and one of them sprang up quickly, fastidiously brushing the dust from his knees as Shayne and Matson pushed in.
The Chief of Detectives was short and slender, with piercing black eyes and a threadlike black mustache which he caressed gently with his thumbnail as he scowled up at the big redhead.
�Took you long enough to bring him in, Matson. Give you any trouble?�
�Not a bit, Chief,� Matson answered quickly.
�What a question, Petey,� Shayne said reprovingly. �You know I always jump when you snap the whip. What can I do for you this time?�
Peter Painter�s thin features tightened at Shayne�s tone. �Glad to find you cooperative for once. Tell me who the dead man is.�
Shayne took a step forward, pressing Painter aside so he could look down directly at the face of the corpse.
He studied the flaccid features for a long moment before shaking his red head and stepping back.
�I never saw him before in my life,� he told Peter Painter truthfully.
�Now wait a moment, Shayne. Take your time and think about this carefully. I wouldn�t want you to get out on a limb on a thing like this.�
�I�m sure you wouldn�t, Petey.�
�I mean it, Shayne. I�m giving you every chance to come clean.�
�To come clean on what?�
�On this man�s identity. I warn you that you�ll be obstructing justice if you withhold any information.�
Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders. �I never saw him before. It�s that simple.�
Peter Painter straightened his slight body stiffly and appeared to strut standing still. �Will you take your oath that you have never seen this man before?�
Shayne said, �If I were under oath, which I�m not, I would answer the question like this: To my knowledge, and so far as memory serves me, I do not recall having seen him before.�
�That�s equivocating, Shayne.�
The big redhead shrugged impassively. �Have it your own way.�
�You�re not prepared to swear you�ve never seen him before?�
�Are you?� Shayne shot at him.
�Am I what?�
�Prepared to swear you never saw him before?�
�I�m asking the questions, Shayne.�
�And I�m answering.�
�Not responsibly, you�re not.�
Shayne�s gray eyes glinted with anger. He compressed his lips and reached slowly for a cigarette, looking away from Painter and up at the night sky with an audible sigh.
Peter Painter�s body quivered with anger and his voice figuratively stamped its foot as he snapped:
�Well, answer me.�
�Answer what?�
�My question.�
�I didn�t hear any question,� said Shayne patiently.
�I asked if you are willing to swear you never saw this man before?�
�Hell no,� exploded Shayne. �Maybe I passed him on the street this evening. Maybe I saw him at Hialeah ten years ago. How in hell do I know? Just how goddamned silly can you get standing out on a street corner at midnight?�
There was an almost inaudible snicker from the men surrounding them, and Painter turned to glare around at them before thumbnailing his mustache again and turning back to say:
�Let�s try it this way. Even though you can�t recollect
Shayne said flatly, �I don�t know.�
�You don�t know who he is?� There was a faint smirk in Painter�s voice.
�I don�t?�
�You haven�t the faintest idea of his identity... can�t even hazard a guess?� The smirk was more pronounced.
�I can�t even hazard a guess.�
�Then how do you explain this, Shayne? How do you explain the fact that we found this newspaper clipping folded up in the dead man�s inner coat pocket?� Painter dramatically produced a clipping from his pocket and thrust it forward under Shayne�s eyes.
The private detective took it and glanced at the heading:
He recognized it instantly. It had appeared in the
He handed it back to Painter disgustedly. �I can�t help it if he�s one of my fans.�
�But how do you explain him having it carefully folded in his pocket tonight when he was murdered?�
Shayne said, �You�d better ask him.�
�You�re equivocating again.�
Shayne smothered an obvious reply and stolidly folded his arms, puffing on his cigarette and screwing up his eyes as smoke trailed upward past them.
�Well, aren�t you?� demanded Painter after a moment.
Shayne said, �No,� and let it go at that.
�I�ll give you one more chance to come clean, Shayne.� Painter took a small sheet of paper from a memo pad from his pocket and showed the redhead the penciled notation on it. Shayne looked down impassively in the bright light and read the words aloud:
�Michael Shayne. Bank of Bay Biscayne Bldg. 9:00 A.M. sharp. Jan. 8.�
He started to comment that the adddress was wrong, to remind Painter that his office was in the Biscayne Building in Miami instead of the Bank of Bay Biscayne Building, but he held his tongue when he recalled that was one of the many errors in the
�This was folded inside the clipping in his pocket. Positive evidence that he had a definite appointment with you at your office tomorrow morning at nine o�clock. Perhaps you haven�t seen him before. Perhaps you are telling the truth about that.� Painter�s tone indicated that he felt this was a remote possibility but was determined to be fair.
�Just give me his name, Shayne. That�s all. His name and what the appointment was about.�
Shayne said, �There wasn�t any nine o�clock appointment. Not to my knowledge.�
�Perhaps your secretary made it for you.�
�Not Lucy Hamilton.� Shayne shook his head decidedly. �Not for nine o�clock in the morning. She knows damn well I never reach the office until nine-thirty or ten.�
�But if it were an emergency? If he couldn�t come any other time? Mightn�t she do it then?�
�She might. But she would certainly warn me beforehand so I�d be there to keep it. And she didn�t.�
�Perhaps it slipped her mind.�
Shayne shook his head obstinately. �Things like that don�t slip Lucy�s mind. We had dinner together tonight and I remember mentioning to her that I might not be in until noon tomorrow. That certainly would have reminded her.�
A sharply indrawn breath hissed through Peter Painter�s set teeth. �You don�t mind if I call her tonight to check the truth of your statement?�
Shayne unfolded his arms and both of his fists doubled up at his sides. His seething anger broke into the rumble of his voice as he told Painter: �I don�t mind you phoning Lucy any time, but I do goddamned well mind you standing here and calling me a liar.�
Painter took an involuntary step backward, glancing sideward for reassurance from the half dozen of his own men surrounding him.
�I warn you that you�re obstructing justice, Shayne. Identification of this corpse is of paramount importance. If I find out later that you�re holding out information for some devious purpose of your own I swear I�ll have your license.�
Shayne looked down at him contemptuously and didn�t reply.
�For the record, Shayne. What are you working on now?�
Making a visible effort to control his anger, Shayne said: �It�s none of your damned business, and you know it, but for the record... I�m not working on anything right now.�
�I want the name of every client who might have some bearing on this murder.�
Shayne said, �My clients don�t go around committing murders. But I�ll ask around tomorrow and if any of them did the job I�ll be happy to tell you about it. And if I turn up anything else that might help, I�ll let you have that. In the meantime, I�m going home.�
He turned away, but Peter Painter moved swiftly to get in front of him.
�Not so fast, Shayne. I don�t want you coming around tomorrow trying to cover up by saying you�ve just thought of something. You�re not going to get by with that. Give me all the information you�ve got tonight. Right now. You know how important an identification is in a case like this. Don�t think you can hold out and then make a grandstand play later on by solving the case with private information that you�ve had all along. You�ve, by God, pulled that stunt in the past, and don�t think I don�t know it.� The voice of the slender chief of detectives was reedy and shaking with wrath.
�You claim you don�t know anything about this man, so don�t try to horn in later. I won�t stand for it. Get back to your side of Biscayne Bay and stay there.�
Shayne�s fists were bunched by his sides again, but he looked down at the enraged little man and said pensively, �It was your idea for me to come over. God knows I don�t like the stink of your inefficiency in my nostrils.� He turned away, growling, �Where�s Matson?�
�Stay right here, Matson,� ordered Painter sharply. �I have other things for my men to do besides chauffering you around, Shayne. Try walking... or spend some of your money for a cab.�
Shayne stopped with his back to Painter and to the other Beach cops. He stood for a moment with his back to them, big shoulders hunched forward a trifle, legs widespread and planted firmly as though they refused to carry him forward in response to Painter�s suggestion.
Then he moved away from the spotlights without looking back, walked stolidly down the street in search of a cruising taxi to take him back across the Causeway to Miami.
Michael Shayne had been gone about forty-five minutes when he reentered the hotel. The desk clerk looked up with an eager smile and planted both elbows on the counter as the detective approached.
�Gee, Mr. Shayne. No trouble, huh? I thought you and that detective from the Beach were really going to tangle.�
Shayne said, �No trouble, Pete. The woman you phoned about still here?�
�Sure. Up in your place. I had Charley take her up after I talked with you at Miss Hamilton�s. Then when you went off, I sent him up to say you�d been delayed. Look, Mr. Shayne, it sounded like you maybe didn�t get it straight on the telephone. I tried to tell you she wasn�t much to look at, but you kept going on about her being young and passionate and all. I just didn�t get it.�
Shayne grinned widely and said, �Forget it, Pete. I was trying to make Miss Hamilton jealous. Call her, will you?�
�Miss Hamilton?� Pete straightened up.
�Yea. I�d like to speak to her before I go up.�
�Sure. Take it in the booth there.�
Pete turned back to the switchboard which he handled on night duty, and Shayne sauntered over to a booth at one side of the desk. He lifted the receiver after Pete nodded to him, and heard Lucy�s telephone ringing. It stopped after three rings and her voice sang over the wire, �Hello?�
�Lucy? Still awake?�
�Is that you, Michael? I certainly am awake. I�ve been wanting to call you, but hated to interrupt at just the wrong moment.�
�Painter call you?�
�He certainly did. And sounded particularly nasty even for Painter. He didn�t actually call me a liar out loud, Michael, but he gave the definite impression he didn�t believe me when I told him you do
�I don�t, do I?�
�Of course not, Michael. Nine o�clock in the
Shayne chuckled and said, �Tut, angel, and a couple more tuts. I�m calling from downstairs after returning from the Beach and a hassle with Painter. I�ll report on her in the morning.�
�What is it with Painter, Michael? Honestly, I never heard him sound so furiously frustrated.�
�His usual trouble, angel,� Shayne told her airily. �He�s got himself a murder he doesn�t know how to solve, and this time I�m not going to help. Get your beauty sleep.�
�I will. And you... well, there�s no use my telling
Shayne hesitated a moment, then said gently, �You know I won�t, angel. You�ve spoiled me for that. I�ll... be thinking of you.�
She said, �Good night, Michael,� and her voice was soft.
He felt better as he hung up, and squared his shoulders and strode toward the waiting elevator with Charley inside the door.
�Understand I�ve got company,� he said as the door closed.
The colored lad beamed at him and said, �You sho have, Mist�r Shayne. A real nice lady in bad trouble I reckon.�
Shayne got off on the second floor and went down the corridor and found his door closed, though light showed through the transom. He knocked lightly and waited, had his hand raised to knock again when the door opened and his midnight visitor stood there in front of him.
She was plumply thirtyish, he guessed, with decidedly nice features that were badly in need of fresh makeup. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed from tears, and her taffy-colored hair with Dutch bangs framed a round face and what should have been a peaches-and-cream complexion, but wasn�t.
She wore a blue and white cotton print housedress that was belted a little too high and a little too tightly and managed to give the impression that she had made it herself, service-weight hose and sensible, low-heeled brown pumps.
Her eyes and mouth made three round O�s as she looked up at him, and Shayne dragged off his hat to tell her matter-of-factly, �I�m sorry I was held up. I�m Michael Shayne.�
�Oh, Mr. Shayne.� She swallowed hard and ducked her head in embarrassment. �I know it�s awful for me to come here like this and I don�t know whatever you�ll think of me, but... but I just
Shayne said gravely, �It is sort of my office, like. For many years I had no other office.� He walked past her, tossing his hat onto a rack near the door, and went on to a wall liquor cabinet at the rear and asked with his back to her, �Can I get you anything to drink? Waiting is a dry business.�
�Oh, no. Nothing for me, thank you. I almost never take anything, and I have to drive all the way back and all. But you go right ahead.�
Shayne took down a bottle of cognac and a four-ounce glass, carried them into the kitchen where he arranged them on a tray, put ice-cubes and water in a tall glass.
When he returned with the tray his visitor had seated herself primly at one end of the sofa and was gazing with downcast eyes at her stubby, work-roughened fingers writhing together in her lap.
Shayne put the tray on the center table and turned a deep chair in her direction but not looking directly toward her. He poured cognac in the small glass and took a sip, then drank a gulp of ice water and lit a cigarette. He settled back with long legs stretched in front of him and head against the cushion and said, �You haven�t introduced yourself yet.�
�I�m Mrs. Harvey Barstow, Mr. Shayne. From Denham. That�s up in the interior. A little town...�
Shayne said, �I know the place. Have driven through it at least. What brings you to Miami, Mrs. Barstow?
�To see you. To beg you to... That is, you haven�t talked with Mr. Carson yet, have you?�
�Carson?� Shayne managed to keep most of the curiosity out of his voice. �No.�
�I didn�t think so, knowing he�d made the appointment for early tomorrow morning. When you do talk to him, I just wish... oh, I don�t know. Maybe it�s crazy for me to ask. But don�t
Shayne said gravely, �Private detectives aren�t much different from other people, Mrs. Barstow. We get paid for a job... we do it. Hadn�t you better start at the beginning and tell me what you want.�
With her head still hanging and in a muffled voice, she said, �I�m trying to. It�s so hard to get started. It�s Harvey, Mr. Shayne. My husband. And Mrs. Carson. Belle Carson.� Speaking the name brought resonance to Mrs. Barstow�s voice. She lifted her head and looked directly at the detective.
�That�s what Mr. Carson made the appointment about. I know it is, though Harvey�s such a trusting fool he doesn�t believe it for a minute. He thinks it has something to do with the bank... like some money missing or something. He doesn�t even believe that Mr. Carson even suspects anything between him and Belle, when everybody in Denham knows how they carry on. It�s all that awful woman�s fault, Mr. Shayne. Harvey�s a good man, but a woman like Belle can make a fool out of any man. Look at how long it took her to get her hooks into Mr. Carson... and him a bachelor over forty.�
�How long did it take?� Shayne asked with interest.
�No more�n a month after she showed up in Denham to work in the bank. But was she satisfied with marrying the most eligible bachelor in town? Not Belle, you can bet your life. Anything that wears pants is fair game to her. So you can�t hardly blame Harvey. Working there with her in the bank in the beginning like he did.�
�Your husband works in the bank?�
�Has for years. Even before Mr. Carson became the president. He�s Mr. Carson�s right-hand man, you might say, and that�s another reason why it�s so terrible for him to mess around with Belle. Soon as Mr. Carson finds out for sure, what do you think�ll happen to Harvey�s job? And to me and the children?�
�You think Mr. Carson does suspect, and that he made an appointment with me tomorrow morning to get evidence against his wife and your husband?�
�I don�t know as he really suspects Harvey. People always say a husband is the last one to know about such things. But
�How do you know about Carson�s appointment with me?�
�Harvey told me about it that evening after he wrote the letter to you. He takes all Mr. Carson�s dictation since Belle married him and quit the bank. She wouldn�t stand him hiring another woman secretary, Harvey says, and him being such a good typist and all, he does it instead.�
�And you came here to ask me... what?� Shayne drained his glass and turned his head slightly to look into her round blue eyes.
She wet her lips and looked down at her hands and then up again, half-frightened, half-defiant.
�To see what kind of man you are, Mr. Shayne. To beg you not to break up our marriage. I know it�s just a job to you like you say, but how can it help anything for Harvey to maybe lose his job, and all that scandal and Mr. Carson maybe getting a divorce and then Harvey quitting me and the children and going off with her for all I know.� Her voice was hoarsely despairing. �Do any of you detectives ever think about the harm you bring into people�s lives when you do a job like that? Well! Do you?�
Shayne didn�t bother to tell her that he never touched divorce cases. He asked, �Do you want me to refuse to take the job, Mrs. Barstow?�
�What good would that do? Mr. Carson would just go to another one, and he might be worse. You look like a decent man, Mr. Shayne. Not at all like I thought a private detective would be.�
�What did you think a private detective would be like?� Shayne asked with a smile.
�You needn�t laugh.� She tightened her lips. �I had one experience that taught me a lesson about detectives.�
�What was that, Mrs. Barstow?� Shayne half-filled his wine-glass from the bottle and stared down at the amber fluid as he turned the glass slowly in his fingers.
�It was last year,� she told him tremulously. �When it got so I just couldn�t stand the way Harvey was about Belle... pretending to be working late at the bank when he wasn�t at all, and slipping out to meet her on the back roads. All I could think of was to scare her into leaving Harvey alone and I wrote a letter to this detective... picked his name out of the telephone book because I didn�t know any other way. I told him I was just sure there must be something bad back in her past... a woman like Belle... it just stands to reason that she wasn�t any innocent girl when she came to take the bank job in Denham. I just knew that if a detective checked back on her in Atlanta... that�s where she comes from... that he�d turn up something she wouldn�t want Mr. Carson to know about.�
�You wanted the information to blackmail her with?� asked Shayne.
�Is it blackmail for a woman to try and save her own home?� she demanded fiercely. �I just thought if I could find out something I could hold it over her to make her leave Harvey alone and send him back to his home to be a father to his two little innocent children.�
�Did you get something?�
�That�s just it, Mr. Shayne. I got crooked out of my money, that�s what. Money I�d scrimped and saved from Harvey�s salary and that he didn�t know about. This detective wrote back that I was to send him two hundred dollars for what he called a retainer and expenses, and I did. And then three weeks later I got another letter from him in Atlanta, and he was excited and said he�d found out something all right that would cook Belle�s goose for her good, but it needed another week�s work for him to get the evidence and I was to send him another hundred. I didn�t even quite have that much, but I borrowed fifteen from a friend to make up the hundred and sent it to him. And I never heard another word from him, Mr. Shayne. After a month, I wrote a letter to his office where I�d written first and it came back stamped No Forwarding Address. What do you think of that? He just plain stole my money, that�s what. Can you blame me for being leery of private detectives?�
�No,� Shayne agreed gravely. �But I assure you we�re not all of us like that. Let�s get back to the present situation. You haven�t told me yet exactly what you hope to accomplish by this trip. Does your husband know you�re here, by the way?�
�Goodness, no. He�d have a fit if he knew. Like I say, he doesn�t even suspect why Mr. Carson wants to see you. Thinks it�s just some business to do with the bank... and that worries him because he�s just positive there�s nothing wrong with the accounts or like that, and he can�t figure why a private detective is needed. And I just haven�t had the heart to tell him Mr. Shayne. How
�But where do you think he is this very night? That�s when I made up my mind to drive in and see you. Right after dinner he made the excuse of Mr. Carson seeing you tomorrow to say he had to go back and do night-work to be sure everything was in perfect order. With me knowing as well as he did that Mr. Carson was spending the night in Miami and Belle there alone in her big house. Night-work! I knew well enough the kind of night-work he had in mind. So I waited about an hour and when I couldn�t stand it any longer I bundled the children up in the car and left him a note saying I�d gone to my sister�s to spend the night. And I drove by the bank just to be sure, and sure enough there weren�t any lights there. And I drove past the Carson house and you can bet there were plenty of lights on there. So I dumped the children at my sister�s and drove straight on in to try and see you. I knew you wouldn�t be in your office so I looked up this address in the directory.�
Shayne drank from his glass and took a sip of ice water. �You still haven�t said what you expect me to do.�
�I thought... well... couldn�t you take the case and then come out to Denham and snoop around a little, and then maybe have a little private talk with Harvey and frighten him good? Tell him right out that you�ve got the evidence, but don�t want to break up a couple of homes by telling Mr. Carson the truth. Tell him that if he so much as looks at Belle Carson again that you�ll send your report in.�
�Withholding information from
�You could give him back his money, I thought,� she said faintly. �We�d make it up to you. I�d see that Harvey did that. We�ve got a savings account with almost five hundred dollars in it.� Her voice was pitiably low and her work-roughened hands were writhing together in her lap again. �Pay you extra, even, if you didn�t charge Mr. Carson that much.�
Shayne sighed, marvelling again as he had so often in the past at the elasticity of feminine morality. It was perfectly clear that Mrs. Barstow saw nothing at all wrong with her suggestion. She was fighting desperately for a weakling husband whom she loved, and ethics or morality simply didn�t enter her mind.
But he kept his voice gentle as he told her, �I couldn�t possibly take any money from you or Mr. Barstow... nor could I withhold information from a client if I took on the job. On the other hand,� he went on swiftly, �I may be able to handle it a different way so no one will be hurt. Tell me what sort of man Mr. Carson is. Describe him for me.�
�He�s... well, medium height and sort of plump-faced. Has a mustache, grayish and cut short, and wears rimless glasses because he�s near-sighted. He�s just, well, sort of ordinary-looking. But he�s a real nice man,� she went on quickly. �A lot too nice for a woman like Belle, everybody in Denham thinks. Quiet and conservative, you know, like you think a banker should be.�
�How does he generally dress, Mrs. Barstow?�
�Real nice. A dark suit winter and summer, and a bowtie.�
�Do you know how he got my name?�
�No, I don�t. Harvey was some puzzled by that, too. Why he picked you out. He wondered about it that evening after he mailed the letter Mr. Carson dictated making the appointment.
She got up, smoothing down her cotton dress nervously, and Shayne got up with her.
�I�m very glad you did come, Mrs. Barstow,� he told her truthfully. �You go back to Denham and those two children of yours and try not to worry. I give you my word that things will work out. I don�t think Harvey deserves a wife like you, but if he�s what you want I�ll do my best to see that he stops straying in the future.�
�You�re so good.� Her voice was tremulous as she moved toward the door. �What... will you tell Mr. Carson in the morning?�
Shayne hesitated, clearing his throat behind her as a mental picture of the face of the dead man on Miami Beach came before him. He said, carefully, �I�ll think of something. Try not to worry. And if I do come to Denham, pretend you haven�t met me.�
He went out with her and down the corridor to the elevator where he pressed the DOWN button.
Her blue eyes glistened with wetness and her voice trembled as she held out her hand and said, �I just can�t thank you enough. I...�
He took her hand firmly and said, �Don�t try to. Not yet. After it�s all over I�d like to meet your two children.�
The elevator door opened and he stepped in with her, saying, �I�ll see you to your car.�
�It�s parked right outside. You needn�t bother.�
He rode down with her and took her arm to lead her past the desk where Pete pretended not to be watching them with avid curiosity, and out the front door to a four-year-old Plymouth sedan parked near the entrance. He helped her in the driver�s seat and closed the door, and she impulsively put her hand over his and choked out a low, �God bless you, Mr. Shayne.�
He said, �Drive home carefully,� and stepped back and stood there while she started the motor and clashed the gears and finally moved away. He lifted one hand in farewell and then stalked back into the lobby, tugging at his left earlobe while he fought a brief battle with his conscience.
He should, of course, telephone Peter Painter immediately to tell him that he had every reason to believe that the unidentified corpse was a banker named Carson from upstate Denham.
But it wasn�t much of a battle. He could still hear Painter�s reedy voice saying, �Get back to your side of Biscayne Bay and stay there,� and the memory of the cab fare he�d paid to return after being dragged across the bay in a police car still rankled.
To hell with Peter Painter. Let him identify his own damned corpses. Hadn�t Painter specifically warned him not to come around later with information?
So that�s the way it was going to be.
He went into his room, grim-faced, and poured out a nightcap, carried it in to his bedside table and undressed swiftly, was sound asleep minutes after draining the glass.
Michael Shayne awoke at eight-thirty the next morning. He reached for a cigarette on the bedside table, lit it and lay relaxed while he smoked it and thought about the banker from Denham who had planned to see him at nine o�clock this morning. He wondered if Peter Painter had identified Carson�s body yet, and why a smalltown banker had been gunned the preceding evening in such a professional manner. Had it been to prevent Carson from keeping his appointment with Shayne at nine? That hardly seemed to fit with a small case of sexual two-timing such as Mrs. Barstow had outlined last night. Yet that had merely been Mrs. Barstow�s own idea, he reminded himself. She had no proof that Carson had planned to see him for that reason. In view of his death last night it seemed probable that her husband�s assumption was more correct � that the banker�s appointment had to do with business rather than personal affairs.
He rubbed out his cigarette and swung long legs from under the sheet, stood up and yawned in his pajamas and then padded into the kitchen to start breakfast in the mechanical, single-minded manner of any man who has established a routine over the years and sees no reason to ever deviate from it.
Hot water in a teakettle to boil for coffee. (Sometime, somewhere, some woman had carefully explained to Shayne that one should never run hot water from the spigot into a kettle to boil for coffee. He couldn�t remember why, although it was supposed to have some sort of bad effect on the flavor, but Shayne had once tried using cold water and the longer wait before he had his first cup of coffee had made it seem bitter to him and he hadn�t experimented further.)
A can of chilled tomato juice opened like a beer can and sucked at lingeringly while he put a heavy iron frying pan on the stove and turned the heat high under it, and covered the bottom with four strips of bacon.
Four heaping tablespoonfuls of coffee measured into the top of the dripolator, and turn the fire low under the bacon as it began to crackle.
Boiling water in top of the dripolator when the kettle whistled, and two slices of bread in the toaster, turning the slices of bacon between each operation, getting a carton of eggs from the refrigerator and opening it to sit in readiness on the stove.
Crisp bacon forked onto a folded paper towel and most of the hot grease poured off, four eggs dropped into the remaining grease just as the toast popped up.
Butter for the toast while the eggs began to set, salt and pepper on top of them and then a fast stir with a fork to complete the cooking exactly the way Shayne liked them.
Onto a plate with bacon and toast on the side, and the coffee had just finished running through and the first cup of deeply golden elixir ready to be poured.
It was exactly seven and one-half minutes from the time he entered the kitchen until he emerged with a loaded tray which he carried to the center table and set there.
When the food was wolfed down and a second cup of coffee reheated and poured, Shayne returned with it and added a noggin of brandy, then settled back to enjoy his second cigarette of the new day.
It was a few minutes after nine o�clock when he finished his second coffee royal and his third cigarette � and his telephone rang.
He reached out a long arm for it, and Lucy�s indignant voice came over the wire:
�Michael! Peter Painter is here with another policeman. They were waiting outside when I got here, and insisted on pushing in with me and Mr. Painter wouldn�t let me go to my desk until the other one looked it all over and searched my appointment pad for any notes I had there. And they keep on trying to get me to admit that you had a nine o�clock appointment this morning. What shall I do?�
Shayne�s eyes glinted. He said, �Tell Petey that I�ll be there in ten minutes and if he hasn�t got a search warrant I�m going to knock his teeth down his throat.�
�But he has, Michael,� wailed Lucy.
�Has what?�
�A search warrant. And right now he�s in your private office going through your files.�
Shayne grinned in spite of the anguish in Lucy�s voice. �Hell of a lot of good that�ll do him, angel. I can�t find anything in those files myself. Stand by to see he doesn�t steal anything and I�ll be right down.�
He didn�t break his neck getting dressed and down to the office. There was nothing in his files that had to be kept secret from Painter, and he was glad, in a sense, that the Miami Beach chief of detectives had taken this overt action. Up to this point, Shayne had been vacillating about whether to identify Painter�s dead body for him or not.
Basically, he didn�t like to withhold information from the authorities, and as a matter of policy he avoided doing so unless there were a large fee involved. In this case it didn�t seem likely there would be any money involved, and if Painter had left him alone Shayne knew he would probably have told him about Carson this morning.
But coming to his office with a search warrant was an open challenge which the redhead could not disregard. It was a flat accusation that Painter believed Shayne had lied to him the preceding night, and the detective�s gray eyes were bleak though he grinned encouragingly at a perturbed Lucy when he reached the office some twenty minutes later.
She sat behind her desk beyond the low railing in the reception room with tightly compressed lips and brown eyes glinting fire at the plainclothes Beach dick who lounged uncomfortably in the open doorway leading into Shayne�s private office.
Shayne�s grin widened as he tossed his hat on a hook inside the door. �Only thing I�m worried about is my liquor supply, angel. If Petey starts swigging on that I�m really going to throw him out.�
He strode toward the door of his office as though the dick weren�t blocking his way, and the man stepped aside hastily to avoid physical contact, muttering over his shoulder, �Here�s Shayne now, Chief.�
Peter Painter jerked around from the open drawer of a steel filing cabinet against the wall and glared at Shayne as he came to a stop just inside the room. The drawers of the center desk were pulled open, but there was no other disorder in the room. �I�ve asked your girl to explain your filing system to me, Shayne, and she has refused. She claims you use your own system and not even she knows what it is.�
Shayne chuckled at the testy note in Painter�s voice. He said, �I always knew my private system would come in handy some day when a nosy cop came snooping around.� He crossed to the desk slowly and lowered his left hip onto one corner, got out a cigarette and lit it.
Peter Painter snorted his disgust and turned back to continue his desultory poking through the cardboard folders in the open drawer.
�If you�re looking for a drink,� Shayne told him cheerfully, �it�s in the next drawer down.�
�You know I�m not looking for a drink,� snapped Painter over his shoulder. �I�m searching for evidence to prove that you deliberately lied to me last night when you refused to identify the corpse who had an appointment with you this morning at nine o�clock.�
�My God,� said Shayne in simulated disgust, �haven�t you got around to identifying
Painter turned to run a trembling thumbnail over his tiny black mustache. �We haven�t a single clue to work on except that notation in his pocket about his appointment with you.�
�Which I told you last night I knew nothing about,� Shayne reminded him blandly. He turned his head and lifted ragged red eyebrows at Lucy as she hesitated in the doorway with a couple of letters in her hand. �Don�t mind these guys, angel. Business as usual is our motto.�
�It�s the morning mail that just came. There�s a note from Mr. Detweiler of the Acme Insurance Company that you should see... and then a check on that other case.� Her slight hesitation before the second phrase and faint accent on �other� warned Shayne that she was conveying some hidden meaning to him.
He said, �Okay,� and slid off the desk to brush past Painter�s companion and take the letters from Lucy�s outstretched hand. Standing there with his back to the inner office, he glanced at the insurance company letter and handed it back to her, saying, �I�ll call Detweiler this afternoon.�
The other letter was in a white envelope with the return address: �The First National Bank, Denham, Florida.� The typewritten address was, �Mr. Michael Shayne, Bank of Bay Biscayne Building, Miami, Florida.�
From the address, his gaze flickered up to the stamped cancellation, and he noted that it was postmarked Denham, Florida, Jan. 5, three days previous.
Things added up clearly in his mind as he slowly drew out the single folded typewritten sheet with a check enclosed. It was evident, now, that the banker from Denham had relied on the incorrect address in the newspaper clipping in writing to Shayne for an appointment, and the letter had been delayed two days on that account.
The check was for $250.00, made out to Michael Shayne, dated Jan. 5, and signed W. D. Carson.
The letter was also dated Jan. 5, and read:
Mr. Michael Shayne,
Bank of Bay Biscayne Building,
Miami, Florida.
Dear Mr. Shayne:
I would like to consult you on an extremely confidential matter of the utmost importance, and request an appointment at 9:00 A.M., Jan. 8, at your office.
I will be registered at the Donchester Hotel on Miami Beach the night of Jan. 7, and urgently request that you contact me there during the evening if you cannot, for any reason, see me at nine the next morning.
I enclose my personal check in the sum of $250.00 as an advance retainer and as evidence of my good faith.
Very truly yours
Michael Shayne read the letter from the dead man through swiftly, and folded it as Painter moved up behind him, demanding aggressively, �What is it, Shayne? Something to do with...?�
Shayne said easily, �Unh-uh, Painter. I don�t believe your search warrant covers my personal mail.� He replaced the letter in its envelope and handed it back to Lucy, telling her, �Answer it, angel, acknowledging receipt of the check with thanks.� He folded the check and put it in his wallet, told Painter over his shoulder, �You go ahead and waste the taxpayers� money as you wish. Happens I have to work for a living.� He went out without a backward glance, telling Lucy as he reached for his hat, �Keep an eye on these birds. If they try to walk out with anything, call Will Gentry and have them arrested for burglary.�
He rammed the hat down on his unruly red hair and went out fast to the elevator, and down to his car that was parked in front.
Seated at his private office in the hotel Donchester, Steve Frazel looked as unlike the conventional hotel house dick as was possible. He was a slender, upright man with thinning gray hair and ascetic features. He wore horn-rimmed glasses through which he regarded Michael Shayne with wary distrust as the redhead sat down across the desk from him.
�As though,� he said wearily, �I didn�t have troubles enough this morning. What�s on your mind, Shamus?�
Shayne�s eyes glinted. �Troubles? What in particular?�
�Nothing in particular. Particularly, nothing for you.� Frazel removed his glasses and blinked wearily. Then he replaced them and said pointedly, �That was merely to indicate that I am quite busy with certain minor matters of routine. So if you�ve just dropped in for a chat...�
Shayne said, �I don�t want much, Steve. Just the dope on one of your guests, W. D. Carson. A banker from Denham, I think.�
�What about him, Mike?�
Shayne spread out his hands on the desk. �Anything. Everything. A quick run-down before you and I go up for a look at his room.�
The Chief Security Officer of the Donchester nodded and pressed a button in front of him and spoke into an intercom. He leaned back and removed his glasses again. �Has your banker from Denham absconded?�
�I don�t think so,� Shayne said truthfully. He lit a cigarette and added, �I�ll give you the story after I see what you�ve got.� He exhaled twin streams of smoke from his nostrils and said idly, �Understand you had a killing nearby last night.�
�Down the street, you mean?� Frazel nodded. �Someone mentioned it this morning, though I haven�t seen a paper. It tie in?�
Shayne said cautiously, �I don�t believe Painter has managed to identify the victim yet.�
Impatiently, Frazel said, �Painter! Sometimes I doubt whether he could identify his own grandmother. Jesus! The things I could tell you about lack of cooperation I get when I try to feed him something on the Q. T.�
Shayne nodded and said easily, �Petey does have a way of getting out of line sometimes. That�s why I�m going to give this to you straight and let you handle it the best way for the hotel.�
Frazel said, �I appreciate that.� He turned his head as there was a light knock on an inside door and a young man entered with a sheet of paper in his hand. He took it and said, �Thanks, Jim,� adjusted his glasses and told Shayne doubtfully, �There isn�t much. Carson has been with us overnight twice in the past three years. Always alone. He checked in at five-thirty yesterday. Reservation made in advance for one night by letter dated January fifth. One telephone call from his room at six-fifteen.� He read off a local number to Shayne. �One dry martini from room service at seven-fifty-two, for which he signed. Room is vacant and unslept in this morning, and key in the slot.�
Shayne made a note of the telephone number and asked, �That mean anything to you?�
Steve Frazel shook his head. Shayne lifted his eyebrows inquiringly and reached for a telephone on the desk. Frazel nodded and pressed a button for an outside connection as the detective lifted the receiver.
He dialled the number Carson had called the preceding evening, and after a moment a bright feminine voice caroled, �Park Plaza Apartments. Good morning.�
Shayne said, �Sorry. I have the wrong number.� He hung up and told Frazel, �The Park Plaza Apartments. Isn�t that nearby?�
�About five blocks. What should I know about this, Mike?�
�Let�s go see his room first.�
Frazel said, �Three-oh-eight,� and stood up. Shayne followed him through the inner door to a narrow corridor that led around to the lobby and the elevators. They went up to the third floor and Frazel selected a key from a ring as they went down the hall. It unlocked Number 308 after he knocked on the door and got no answer. The two men walked in and looked about the room that was exactly as the banker had left it the preceding evening when he went out to have his solitary dinner at the Chez Dumont. Shayne wrinkled his nose at the still half-filled cocktail glass on the tray, leaned over and sniffed it and asked incredulously, �Did you say he ordered a
Frazel said, �The hotel has to make a buck where it can.� He crossed the room to look at the hairbrushes on the dresser and the soiled shirt on the foot of the bed, and followed Shayne into the bathroom to find one crumpled hand-towel and a toothbrush on the lavatory. They both went back to the open pigskin bag and Frazel watched carefully while Shayne lifted out the folded pajamas and disclosed a pair of clean socks rolled into a ball and a suit of clean underwear. There was nothing more in the bag.
Shayne shrugged as he replaced the pajamas. He said abruptly: �I�m pretty sure W. D. Carson is dead. Shot down on the street last night about eleven o�clock. Don�t ask me why. All I know is that he had an old newspaper clipping about me in his pocket, and a notation indicating that he had a nine o�clock appointment with me this morning. Painter dragged me across the Causeway and hauled me over the coals when I couldn�t identify the body for him and denied having any such appointment with anybody. But a letter came to my office this morning from Carson, wrongly addressed so it had been delayed. He said he�d be staying here. I haven�t the faintest idea what he wanted to see me about, Steve.�
�You haven�t notified Painter yet?�
�Hell, no,� said Shayne savagely. �He practically called me a liar after I levelled with him last night, and warned me not to come around later with information pretending I hadn�t known it all the time. Then the scummy little louse had the guts to get a search warrant and go through my office files looking for evidence that I knew who the guy was and had held out on him. Would
�Probably not,� said Frazel soothingly. �How do you want me to play it?�
�It�s up to you and your civic conscience,� said Shayne. �I�ve got a retainer from Carson in my pocket and I�d like to find out who murdered him before he could get to my office this morning, and before Painter gets in my way and messes things up. For that, I�d like a little time. A few hours is all.�
�Then you�re asking me to hold out on Painter?� asked Frazel uncomfortably.
�I�m not asking you, Steve. Call him now if you think you have to.� Shayne gestured toward the telephone. �I am asking you to keep me out of it. Can�t you work it this way?� the redhead went on swiftly:
�Say one of your guests hasn�t shown up and hasn�t slept in his bed last night? Mention the fact that his description coincides with that of the dead man, and offer to send over a bellboy or maid to look at the body and identify it?�
�Sure,� Frazel said. �I can do it that way.� He led the way out of the room. �Two-three hours, huh? No reason I should get such a report on a guest before noon... and no damned reason why I should do Chief of Detectives Painter�s work for him.�
Shayne said feelingly, �Thanks, Steve. I�ll be moving fast.� They went down in the elevator together, and Shayne long-legged it across the lobby with a farewell wave of his big hand, got in his car and drove around the few blocks to the Park Plaza Apartments.
It was a large, severe and very modern building, and Shayne had little hope of learning anything there, but it was the one stone he had and it could not be left unturned.
Inside was a small modern lobby with an information desk and switchboard behind it. A benign-faced, gray-haired woman sat behind the desk and a younger woman operated the switchboard behind her.
Shayne leaned an elbow on the desk and used his most ingratiating, small-boyish smile as he said, �I know I�m going to ask the impossible of you, Ma�am, but that�s my job. I�m trying to trace a call that was made to this number at exactly six-fifteen last evening. Is there any chance in the world that anybody might recall it? Who received it?�
She looked interested and cooperative, but completely unhelpful. �I don�t see how there would be a chance in the world,� she declared. �Mercy, we have more than sixty-tenants... and with the phone ringing all the time... well, you can see for yourself.� She turned to look over her shoulder at the switchboard where the operator was busy putting plugs in holes and taking plugs out of holes.
Shayne said, �I know. And I don�t suppose this girl was even on duty last evening?�
�No, that would be Elise. From four to midnight.�
Shayne nodded and said, �Tell me this. What sort of clientele do you have here?�
�The very finest people. I can assure you...�
�I�m sorry,� Shayne said quickly at the note of umbrage in her voice. �I�m sure you do. What I meant was... are your apartments mostly large or small efficiency ones? Do you have mostly, well, professional people? Employed couples? Tourists or year-round residents?�
�Very few tourists. We have a few larger units, four, five and six room. But mostly singles and doubles.� She turned away with a bright smile for an elderly couple coming in from the street, and Shayne said, �Thank you very much,� and hurried out.
His next stop was at the News Tower in Miami, where he went up to the City Room and was lucky enough to find Timothy Rourke at his typewriter in one corner of the busy room.
The reporter leaned back and folded his arms and regarded Shayne with a saturnine twinkle in his eyes as the redhead dropped into a straight chair in front of him. �What the hell�s with you and Painter?� he demanded. �I been calling your office, but Lucy refuses to give out.�
Shayne said, �You tell me.�
�All I know, it�s got something to do with Petey�s murder last night. I wasn�t in on it, but the grapevine says he�s got evidence you and the body were palsywalsy and you refuse to admit it for reasons best known to yourself. I do have it straight that Painter got himself a search warrant this morning and hied himself to your office to search for enough evidence to hang you.�
�And?� Shayne asked as he stopped.
Timothy Rourke shrugged his thin shoulders and his deep-set eyes gleamed beneath overhanging brows.
�So far as I know he retired in confusion. So, give.�
Shayne shook his red head, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. �That�s why I�m here. For information. What is the latest dope on the Beach killing?�
�Hell, there isn�t much. Shot on the street about eleven last night. Through the forehead with a Thirty-Two S. and W. Sometimes known as a Bulldog.�
�Sometimes known as a Banker�s Special,� interrupted Shayne sardonically. �Any chance of suicide, Tim?�
Rourke looked mildly surprised and consulted some notes in front of him. �It hasn�t been suggested. Nothing about powder burns. You got anything?� he asked eagerly.
Shayne shook his head. �Nobody tells me anything. I was just struck by the coincidence of his being shot by that gun.�
�Coincidence? Like what?�
Shayne continued to shake his head. �I�m doing a lot of guessing at this point. Body still unidentified?�
�At latest reports. No wallet. No nothing. Ready-to-wear clothing with some laundry marks they�re trying to trace. Fingerprints to Washington and the usual crap. Except rumor says there was something on him that pointed the finger to you.�
�I�ve got an alibi,� Shayne told him gravely. �Besides I hardly ever gun prospective clients.�
�That what he was, Mike? For the paper?�
Shayne shook his head. �Not until Painter decides to give it out. Nothing else, huh?�
�Not a damned thing.� Timothy Rourke cupped his chin in one emaciated hand and studied Shayne�s face with hotly glowing eyes. �What angle are you working on?�
�Anything to get the jump on Painter,� Shayne told him cheerfully. �And, as usual, I have.�
�Have what?�
�Got the jump on him.�
Shayne stood up. �Here�s a tip, Tim. Stay close to Painter the next few hours. A break is due, and you better follow it up.�
�What about you?� Rourke was following him eagerly across the City Room to the door.
�Don�t mention it, Tim, but I�m going to be out ahead of it. And I do mean... don�t
Shayne swung out and to the elevator, went down and drove directly to his office.
Lucy Hamilton was alone when he walked in. She demanded, �What
�God knows, angel. At the moment, it�s nothing more than a murder rap... but it may get worse. I�m headed for Denham, but you don�t know it.�
�Michael Shayne, you�d better tell me something.� Lucy Hamilton was close to tears. �What�s the hussy who called you at midnight last night got to do with it?�
�Hussy?� Shayne shook his head gravely with a look of incomprehension on his angular face. �You know me better than that.�
�The Marilyn type,� she broke in stormily. �The one who was doing a strip tease in your hotel room while you dashed over there away from me.�
�The way you do take on, Lucy.� Shayne�s voice was gently reproving. He clawed fingers through his hair. �Hold down the fort, angel. I�m on my way to Denham, but you don�t know it. You didn�t see that letter from Carson this morning.�
�Why are you doing this, Michael? Why don�t you tell Chief Painter the truth and let him solve his own cases?�
�Because it�s my case now,� Shayne told her angrily. �I�ve got a retainer in my pocket, and, by God, I don�t like it when people murder prospective clients before they can get to me.�
Lucy put her hand over her mouth. �Is Mr. Carson the man who was shot on the Beach last night?�
�From all outward appearances. And to prevent his keeping an appointment with me. So, I�m headed for Denham.�
Lucy came out of her chair swiftly and through the gate in the railing to detain him with both hands on his shoulders.
�Is she there, Michael?�
�What she?�
�The one... you left me for last night?�
For a long moment Shayne looked down into her agonized brown eyes and restrained an impulse to laugh as he recalled Mrs. Harvey Barstow. Then he said gently, �Some day I�m going to learn to keep my big mouth shut and stop kidding you, angel. As soon as I leave, do this for me and for your own peace of mind. Call up Pete at the hotel and get him to give you a blow-by-blow description of my visitor last night. In the meantime, I�m on my way.�
He leaned forward to brush his lips across her forehead, then put her aside and went out of the office fast. Although he knew Steve Frazel shared his own aversion of Peter Painter, he wasn�t sure how long Frazel would feel he could afford to stall with the information Shayne had given him.
Denham was a small town in the citrus belt, inland from Ft. Pierce and normally a good two hour drive from Miami. By pushing hard, Shayne made it just under an hour and a half, and it was twelve o�clock when he took his heavy foot off the accelerator and slowed at the neat, residential outskirts of the town.
The highway led directly through the Main Street shopping center, and there was one traffic light where Shayne paused for yellow to turn green. Directly across the intersection on the corner was a neat, newish, one-story stucco building with a sign over the entrance, FIRST NATIONAL BANK OF DENHAM.
Shayne eased past the light and angle-parked just beyond the bank building, got out and strolled back. The lobby was neat and modern, with a breast-high counter behind which two tellers were busy, another counter right-angled from it that said SAVINGS ACCOUNTS and SAFE DEPOSIT, presided over by a dumpy young woman wearing harlequin glasses, and to the left of the tellers� counter was a low-railed enclosure with one desk just inside the railing.
A tall, gaunt-faced man sat at the desk busy with some papers in front of him. Shayne crossed to the railing and he glanced up, a look of interest crossing his face when he saw the tall, red-headed stranger. �Something I can do for you?� he asked politely.
Shayne said, �I�d like a few minutes with whoever is in charge.�
�Yes. Won�t you sit down?� He nodded toward a gate in the railing at Shayne�s left, arose and held out his hand with a questioning look as the detective came to his desk.
�I�m Mr. Martin, vice-president. Mr. Carson is not in today.� He ended on a note of inquiry that asked if a vice-president would do.
Shayne took his hand and said, �I know. I�m Michael Shayne from Miami.� He paused momentarily to see if the name struck any chord, but it didn�t appear to do so. He dropped into a chair beside the desk and went on smoothly, �Mr. Carson had an appointment with me this morning and that�s why I�m here.�
Mr. Martin resumed his seat and said, �I see,� in a tone that indicated to Shayne he didn�t see at all.
Shayne said, �I�m a private detective from Miami, Mr. Martin, and Mr. Carson has retained me to make an investigation for him. I thought perhaps you knew all about it.�
�A private detective?� Martin didn�t sound exactly frightened, but he was certainly perturbed. But no more so, Shayne thought, than any vice-president of a small bank would be under such circumstances. He fitted the tips of his fingers together in front of him and regarded them intently. �Mr. Carson has not... ah... confided in me that he was retaining a private detective for any purpose. Do you have some authorization from him?�
Shayne reached in his hip pocket for his wallet and took out Carson�s check. �This retainer should be sufficient authorization until Mr. Carson returns to verify it. I may as well cash it right now.� He reached in front of Martin for a pen, and endorsed the check and dropped it in front of the vice-president.
Martin studied it a moment and nodded slowly and said, �I see.� He turned and called to the teller nearest him who was not engaged with a customer at the moment: �Harvey. Would you please step here a moment?�
The teller was plump and boyish-looking, with blond hair and a thin blond mustache, and washed-out blue eyes that bulged slightly. As he came around from his counter to stand respectfully beside Martin, Shayne thought there wasn�t much of the Don Juan about him, but then he supposed a banker�s wife in a town like Denham didn�t have too much choice.
�This is Mr. Shayne, Mr. Barstow. Mr. Shayne is a private detective from Miami who has been retained by Mr. Carson to make some sort of... ah... investigation. Perhaps he told
Watching the young man�s face closely when Martin spoke his name, Shayne saw an unmistakable flash of fear on the pudgy features. Barstow blinked several times and swallowed hard, and Shayne wondered if his accounts were in the perfect order his wife thought, or whether he, like his wife, actually believed Carson had intended to consult Shayne on a more personal matter than anything pertaining to the bank�s affairs.
His voice was slightly hoarse and forced as he said, �Mr. Carson did dictate a letter to me a few days ago requesting an appointment with Mr. Shayne. But I did not presume to ask him for what reason.�
�I see,� said Martin. �Then I assume this check is perfectly in order and you may cash it for Mr. Shayne.�
Harvey Barstow took the check between thumb and forefinger and held it away from him as though it were a snake that might strike at any moment. In the same strained voice, he asked, �How would you like the money?�
�Twenties and tens will be fine,� Shayne said easily.
When he walked away with the check, Martin asked uneasily, �What... ah... exactly are you here to investigate, Mr. Shayne? Anything we can do, of course...�
Shayne said, �I think it�s up to Mr. Carson to tell you whatever he wishes you to know. But to expedite things before his return, I�d like half an hour in his private office. There are certain things that must be looked into at once.�
For a moment he felt certain that his bluff was going to fail, that Martin was going to refuse him access to the banker�s private files before Carson returned and authorized it, but after a period of thoughtful contemplation of his tented fingers, the vice-president nodded and said, �Of course. If that�s Mr. Carson�s wish.�
Barstow returned with a sheaf of bills which Shayne accepted carelessly and stuffed in his wallet without counting. �Mr. Barstow,� said Martin stiffly, �acts more or less as Mr. Carson�s assistant, and I�m sure he�ll help you all he can. Take Mr. Shayne into Mr. Carson�s office,� he directed the teller, �and tell him whatever he wishes to know.�
Shayne got up and followed Barstow along the rear of the counter, conscious of curious glances from the other employees. Barstow took him into a small office enclosed with frosted glass, and stood aside with his full lips working apprehensively. �I don�t understand...� he burst out. �I don�t know exactly... I�m not at all sure that Mr. Martin has the proper authority to authorize this.�
Shayne closed the door tightly and made his gaze coldly bleak as they searched the washed-out blue eyes of the younger man. �Pretty nervous about this, aren�t you, Barstow?�
�Not at all. It�s just that I...� He dropped his gaze and swallowed twice, then valiantly lifted his eyes to Shayne�s hard stare and went on defiantly. �It seems to me rather high-handed for you to walk in here like this. What are you after? How do we know what Mr. Carson authorized you to do here? Why didn�t he return with you?�
�Perhaps,� said Shayne, �because he wanted me to gather my own impressions of the staff first-hand without taking any cue from him.� He opened the door and took Barstow firmly by the arm and steered him out. �If I need your help I�ll call you.�
�But Mr. Martin said I was to... well...�
�He said you were to tell me whatever I wanted to know,� Shayne reminded him shortly. He pushed the reluctant young man out and closed the door firmly behind him, then turned and surveyed the neat office with a sigh, wondering where to start looking for the reason behind Carson�s letter asking for an appointment � for some clue to the �extremely confidential matter of the utmost importance� which Carson had wished to consult him about.
Half an hour later, after checking through all the papers in the desk drawers and pawing through the contents of two filing cabinets, Shayne was no closer to the answer than before. So far as he could tell, there wasn�t a single personal paper in the bank president�s office. So far as his limited knowledge of banking procedure went, everything seemed in perfect order and devoid of the clue he sought.
When he went out of the office, only one teller was behind the counter, and Harvey Barstow was not in sight. Martin was still at his desk, and he looked up with curiosity as Shayne came around and stopped beside him.
�Everything all right, I trust? That is... ah... surely you can understand our natural consternation when a private detective is called in to investigate a bank.�
�I can understand that thoroughly, Mr. Martin.� Shayne made his voice sound grim, and kept his face unsmiling. �Unfortunately Carson did not authorize me to discuss the matter.� He glanced at his watch. �Some place in town I can get lunch?�
�The hotel dining room is best. It�s a little late for lunch in Denham, but I�m sure they can accommodate you. The Traveller�s Rest. Up the street one block on your right.�
Shayne nodded and strode out of the bank. He got in his car and drove a block west, found the Traveller�s Rest was a three-story frame structure badly in need of paint, its wide veranda holding a dozen unoccupied rocking chairs. He parked and got a suitcase out of the back seat which he had hastily packed after leaving the office, carried it up creaking steps and into a musty lobby that had an old man with a seamed and leathery face and palpably false teeth behind the desk.
He watched Shayne�s approach with bright-eyed interest and clicked his teeth and said, �What can we do for you, Mister?� when the detective set his suitcase down in front of the desk.
�I�d like a room and I was told I could get lunch here.�
�We got lots of rooms, that�s for sure. And I reckon we can still scrape up some vittles. Ain�t had my own yet, �s matter of fact. Fried pork chops a special today, with stewed tomatoes and home-fried potatoes. Mebbe some apple pie left.� The old man smacked his lips and Shayne winced as he swung a register around and handed him a pen.
He said, �Just a couple of hamburgers will be fine,� and signed, �Michael Shayne, Miami, Florida.�
The old man turned the register back and squinted at it. �From Miami, hey. Here on business?�
�Sort of.� Shayne got out a cigarette and lit it, wondering how long it would be before everyone in town knew exactly what his business was.
�Be here long?� The old man wrote 110 behind Shayne�s name and reached behind him for a plain house-key attached to a numbered metal disk. �Michael Shayne, huh? Seems like that name�s mighty familiar.�
�Just over night. Possibly not even that.� Shayne bent to pick up his bag and the old man pointed and said, �Right up them stairs and to your left, less�n you want I should carry your bag up. We ain�t fancy-like but we aim to make our guests comfortable. You just holler case you want anything and I�ll have cook fix you up something.�
Shayne went up the stairs and to his left, past a door marked GENTS BATH and to Number 110. It was a small, humid room, with an iron bedstead and a rust-streaked lavatory in one corner. He opened his bag and lifted out a bottle of brandy, got the single glass from above the lavatory and poured it half-full. He took a sip of the warm liquor and recalled that he was supposed to holler in case he wanted anything, turned and went out of the room, locking it behind him, and went down stairs carrying the glass in his right hand.
The leathery-faced old man came from behind the desk as he reached the bottom, moved toward an archway on the right, saying, �In here�s the dining room. Everyone else has et, but cook�ll fix you something real tasty.� He looked at the glass half-full of amber liquid in Shayne�s hand, and asked disapprovingly, �Some sorta medicine you got there? You look like a healthy young feller, too.�
Shayne grinned and said, �This is how I stay healthy. Thought I might get some ice water to wash it down.�
�We got that, for sure,� cackled the old man. He ushered Shayne to a small table near the kitchen entrance, and the detective said, �Why not sit with me if you haven�t already eaten?�
�I take that right neighborly. Yessir, I�ll do that very thing. Ice water, Mary,� he called toward the kitchen door, and gathered a table-setting from a nearby table and placed it opposite Shayne�s place.
A neat colored girl brought ice water for both of them, and placidly agreed to serve Shayne a rare hamburger steak instead of the fried pork chops, and to substitute a bowl of grits for home-fried potatoes.
Shayne settled back and alternately sipped from his water-glass of brandy and the tumbler of ice water, and parried pointed questions about his reason for being in Denham while he learned that his luncheon companion owned the hotel and was named Ira Stone, and that Denham was a right nice little town though the hotel business was terrible, quite a modern little town some-ways, with a real good super-market down the street that�d just been opened last year, but not much tourist business and none of them nightclubs like Mr. Shayne was most likely used to in Miami.
Yessir, the bank was real nice. So, Shayne had noticed it down the street. Real up-to-date and all since Mr. Carson had took over and put in city ways. But still a real hometown bank. Accommodating as all get-out and a farmer could get a loan on his crop there without a lot of red tape, if Mr. Carson said so.
A real nice feller, Mr. Carson. At first the folks hadn�t cottoned to him too much, but he had a real good community spirit and then when he first began taking an interest in Miss Louella and it looked like sure enough she�d made a real catch at last, folks got friendly. Miss Louella was quality and it sure looked like the makings of a wedding until Mr. Carson made the mistake of advertising in the city papers for a stenographer and getting Belle Brand to work in the bank.
Well, not a mistake, maybe. Not from Mr. Carson�s way of looking at it, Ira Stone was forced to agree. But there was a lot of talk in town when the new president of the bank dropped off with Miss Louella all of a sudden and began squiring his new secretary around to all the town affairs.
Not that any of the men-folks blamed him, you could bet your life. The way she swished around and looked at a man and was ready to take a drink with any of them � straight corn likker or whatever.
Yessir, that Belle was something in Denham all right, and no one was much surprised when they slipped off to the County Seat at Logan and got hitched.
So she quit her job in the bank and Harvey Barstow went back to helping Carson like he had before Belle came, and Mr. Carson bought the old Olmstead house out in the country and had it all fixed up with new furniture and all.
Soon after that folks got to feeling sorry for Carson instead of resenting the way he�d played fast and loose with Miss Louella�s affections. Well, maybe some of them figured he got just about what was coming to him, but others hated to see a nice feller like him get the wool pulled over his eyes by his own wife.
Getting high and dancing with younger fellers while her husband sat on the sidelines and didn�t seem to notice. Rubbing up against them in public, too, until several wives was fit to be tied. There�d been plenty of talk, all right, but that had all sort of simmered down now.
Mostly it was agreed around town that Mr. Carson had finally put his foot down, and mostly his wife stayed at home now, drinking a lot alone and in the daytime from what you heard from the two house servants, and if she did do any stepping out these days it was at night when Mr. Carson was working at the bank or maybe away like he had to be sometimes on business.
Shayne had finished his chopped steak and his grits by the time the garrulous old man across from him had supplied that much information, and he accepted a large wedge of apple pie and a cup of murky coffee and let the discussion trail off naturally to the state of the weather and the prospects for a good crop and the sad state of local moonshining since old Jake Wirt and his two boys had been caught by the Feds and sent up for a long stretch.
And Ira Stone tried again to probe into Shayne�s identity and the nature of his business in Denham, and the detective parried his questions good-naturedly, complimented the waitress and hotel owner on the food they served, and left the table with a full belly and a lot of things to think about.
He knew what his next stop would have to be, though he hesitated about asking Stone for directions, so when he left the lobby and went out into the hot afternoon, he paused and looked up and down the street and then strode west a few doors to a sign that said John Hutchins,
A bony-faced female greeted him in the dim reception room of the real estate office and Shayne said, �Perhaps you can tell me if the old Olmstead property is still on the market. I remember a few years ago...�
�Oh, no, sir. It�s been sold. In fact, we handled the transaction for Mr. Carson, the local banker. Are you interested in...�
Shayne shook his head and looked disappointed. �I recall it as a beautiful place. Do you suppose the present owner would consider an offer now?�
Her hesitation was hardly more than momentary. �I hardly think so. He�s spent a great deal of money fixing it up. But we have several other listings...�
Shayne said, �I may ask you to show me some of them later. But I would like to see what�s been done to that place. Let me see now... I guess I�m a little turned around. Was it out this road...?�
�Three blocks west and then you turn to the right off Main about a quarter of a mile. You can�t miss it.�
�Of course,� Shayne murmured. �I�ll just drive by to get a general idea again. Thank you very much and I may be back to look at some other places.�
He turned away firmly before she could go into a sales talk about their other listings, went back to his car in front of the hotel and drove west three blocks, turned off on a shady street with old homes and nice lawns on either side.
At the end of a quarter of a mile he was practically in the country again, and a winding driveway led up to a white-pillared early colonial mansion on top of a small knoll guarded by magnificent oak trees.
The driveway led past the house and Shayne followed it around to the rear where he parked in a wide gravelled area in front of a three-car garage with all the doors closed.
He got out and followed a flagged walk back to the front and up wooden steps to the wide veranda where he pressed a button in the casing beside wide double doors.
A cool breeze swept through the oak trees in front of the house and the country silence was somnolent as he waited to interview the widow of the village banker who probably didn�t yet know she was a widow. He sincerely hoped she didn�t know, although he realized it was likely that Steve Frazel had notified Painter by this time, and it was quite possible that the Miami Beach detective chief had been in touch with Mrs. Carson by telephone.
In that case she might well be warned against Shayne, though if Frazel had handled the matter the way he had promised, Painter had no reason to believe that Shayne would be in Denham ahead of him.
One of the wide doors opened as he stood there, and an aged Negro looked out at him and bowed slightly and said, �Yes, suh?�
�I�d like to see Mr. Carson.�
�Mista Carson, suh, am not in.�
�I understand that he planned to return from Miami today?�
�Yes, suh. But he didn�t come yet.�
A throaty voice floated out to them from the interior, �Who�s at the door, Abe?�
�Genmun to see Mistah Carson, Ma�am.�
�I�ll see him, Abe.� The voice was closer and the Negro stepped aside and a moment later the banker�s widow confronted Shayne in the doorway.
Belle Carson was a lot of woman. Long-legged, full-breasted, slim-waisted, she was a symphony in green and black as she stood facing Shayne in the hallway, sultry lips parted and sharp upper teeth showing, and there was the clean, acrid smell of gin in the air between them.
She wore a black silk jacket with gold buttons in front that were strained to confine the lushness of her bosom, and a green skirt swirled down over full hips to a point just below her knees. She had smooth black hair drawn back tightly from a high forehead, caught with a green ribbon in a ponytail at the back, and long black lashes lifted slowly from greenish eyes as she lifted her gaze to travel up the length of him and stop as their eyes interlocked.
She said, �Well?� in the same throaty voice he had heard before, but now he realized the huskiness was at least partially due to the gin she had drunk.
He said, �I wanted to see Mr. Carson.�
She asked, �What for?� and there was a hint of scorn in her voice.
Shayne said, �Business. I just drove in from Miami. I understood he was driving back this morning.�
She said, �Did you?� and a hot glow lurked in the greenish depths of her eyes. She lowered her black lashes over them and drew in a deep breath. �What sort of business?�
Shayne said, �It�s sort of private. Is he here?�
She said, �No, but don�t let that stop you.� She turned away from him down the wide hallway and her hips swayed with practiced ease.
Shayne followed her without further invitation, realizing she must be nearer forty than the thirty she first looked, a woman of lithe and well-preserved maturity.
Halfway down the long hall a magnificent staircase curved up to the second floor, and Belle Carson hesitated beside it for a moment until Shayne came abreast of her, then abruptly put her hand on his arm and led him into a long room on the left off the hallway, bright with early afternoon sun streaming through French doors.
There was a long sofa in front of the sunlit doors, and a low glass coffee table in front of it. A martini pitcher beaded with frost stood on the table, and beside it was a single, long-stemmed cocktail glass. She moved away from him toward the table with indolent, feline grace, stooped over to pour liquid from the pitcher into the glass. Straightening, she turned and looked mockingly at him over the rim of the glass. �Will you join me in a sip of lunch?�
Shayne said, �Thanks. I ate mine at your local hotel.�
She sipped from the glass and kept her long lashes low over her eyes and said dispassionately, �I despise men who refuse a drink just because it�s some certain time of day.� She took a deep swallow and set the glass down, then carefully rounded the end of the table to sink onto the sofa. �What sort of private business you got with Walter?�
�Didn�t he tell you why he was going to Miami?�
�To see you, huh?� She emptied her glass and patted the sofa beside her. �Whyn�t you sit down? I don�t even know your name?�
�Don�t you?�
Shayne moved around to sit beside her. Her shoulder and her thigh touched his and she turned her head to study him obliquely. �I don�t, do I?�
�I don�t know,� Shayne said honestly. �Depends on how much your husband tells you about his affairs.�
�Walter?� Her voice was a throaty gurgle. �Pour me another shot and we�ll drink to dear Walter.�
Shayne reached out and poured liquid from the pitcher into the glass. His fingers curled around the stem of the glass and he lifted it to his lips first, murmuring sardonically, �To dear Walter.� From the taste, he judged the contents of the pitcher was straight gin diluted slightly with melted ice cubes.
She took the glass avidly from his hand and drank from it. Shayne said, �When do you expect him home?�
�Who?�
He said patiently, �Walter.�
�Does it matter?� she asked indifferently, emptying the glass again and looking straight ahead.
Shayne increased the pressure of his shoulder and thigh against hers. �Hell, yes, it matters,� he said aggressively. �Certain things I don�t like to have interrupted by jealous husbands.�
Her breathing quickened, but she did not look at him.
�Such as what, Red?�
He said roughly, �I like to know what the rules are when I play games.�
In a feverishly thick voice, though still looking straight ahead, she asked, �Why don�t you kiss me, Red? You want to, don�t you? Isn�t that what you�ve wanted ever since I came to the door and you looked at me?� A shudder rippled up and down the length of her body that was now openly pressing against him.
He said, �Sure I�d like to kiss you. Any man would. But I like to know what the price may be.�
She moved her head so it pressed down on his shoulder and said sleepily, �Nuts.�
He put his left arm loosely about her shoulders. �Before we get in too deep, I want to know how much Walter told you about his business in Miami last night.�
�What�s it matter?�
�It might matter a hell of a lot... in the way I play this with you.�
�Why?� she demanded urgently. She twisted on the sofa and her breasts throbbed against him and her open mouth was close to his. He closed his eyes before putting his mouth over hers. Her lips worked against his in a hard, spasmodic response. The sun from the windows behind them was very hot on his shoulders, and the silence inside the big mansion on the knoll was something you felt and could almost hear.
He pulled away from her and got up abruptly. Belle Carson let her black head loll back against the cushion behind her and she widened her greenish eyes at him. �I bet you�re beginning to wonder about me, Red. Aren�t you?�
He said bleakly, �You�re not hard to figure out.�
�Is that so?� Her voice became sharp and anger blazed in her eyes. �Tell me then.�
�I�ll tell you.� He stood on widespread flat feet a little way in front of her and folded his arms. �You sit around this big house day after day drinking gin and bored to hell-and-gone cooped up here in Denham married to a small-town banker.�
�There are plenty of other men,� she railed at him.
He grinned derisively. �Sure. I saw some of them around town this noon. The old hotel-keeper and that fat-faced boy in the bank. No wonder you go all sloppy inside when a real man shows up in town for a change.�
�Meaning you, Red?�
�Meaning me.�
She leaned forward and very carefully poured herself another drink. She looked over the glass at him with eyes that didn�t quite focus. �Why do you think I stay here if I�m that bored?�
�You�re stuck with it,� he said contemptuously. �It�s what you thought you wanted when you settled down with Carson. Now you know it isn�t, but you don�t know want to do.�
Her eyes were aflame, but with what emotion he could not be sure. It might have been fear, or anger, or sexual passion. She said, in the most casually conversational tone she had used since meeting him at the door, �You sound as though you know a lot about me.�
He didn�t reply. He got out a cigarette and lit it, turning slowly to stroll toward the end of the pleasantly-appointed room. There was a fieldstone fireplace at the far end that looked as though there had never been a fire laid in it. On the mantel was a framed picture of the woman who sat on the sofa behind him. It had evidently been taken some years earlier, but was a very good likeness. Shayne thrust his hands deep in his pockets and sucked on his cigarette while studying the photograph. In the lower left corner was a signature, evidently of the photographer, and the printed words, �Atlanta, Ga.�
There was the muted sound of a doorbell from some place else in the silent house as he stood there.
He turned slowly and saw Belle arising from the sofa, her face rigid with fright. He went to her quickly while both could hear the shuffling footsteps of the Negro servant going to the door.
She moved around from behind the coffee table, putting out both hands to seize his and hold them tightly. �Don�t worry about anything. You stay here, Red. I�ll fix it.�
She let go of his hands and went swiftly toward the door into the hall. She disappeared through it, and Shayne heard her voice saying coolly, �I�m not in to anyone, Abe.�
And then the Negro�s voice, low-pitched and worried, �It am a genmun what says he am the law, Miz Carson. From Miami Beach, an� he say he gotta see you.�
He heard Belle Carson say, �The law, abe? from Miami Beach? But what on earth...?�
And then he heard Peter Painter�s voice, far away toward the front door but rapidly coming closer as he spoke:
�Mrs. Carson? I�m Chief of Detectives Painter from Miami Beach, Florida. I understand that your husband spent last night in Miami Beach and hasn�t returned home yet.�
�That�s right.� Her voice was coolly challenging. �But what�s that to a chief of detectives? Don�t tell me Walter got in trouble with the law?� The emphasis she put on her husband�s name gave the questioning statement a sneering implication.
�I must ask you if you�ve had any communication whatever from your husband since last midnight.� Painter�s voice was severe, and Shayne could envision him standing stiffly erect in the hallway in front of Belle who was at least his height, in all probability thumb-nailing his mustache in a characteristic gesture while he waited to pounce on her reply.
She said wonderingly, �Why should he communicate with me? He intended to be back this afternoon.�
�Do I take it, then, that your answer is in the negative, Mrs. Carson?�
�Yes. That is... no, I haven�t heard from him since he left after lunch yesterday. What�s this all about?�
�I�m very much afraid I have bad news for you, Mrs. Carson.� Painter�s voice was gravely sympathetic.
�Bad news? About Walter?�
�Yes... he... I�m sorry to be the one to tell you, Mrs. Carson, but your husband is dead.�
�Dead?� Her voice was flat. �I don�t understand. He felt perfectly all right when he left yesterday. I just can�t believe...�
�Murdered, Mrs. Carson. Shot down in cold blood on the street only a few blocks from his hotel. We had difficulty identifying him because the killer evidently took his wallet and all identification from the body.�
There was a brief silence from the hallway. Shayne tried to envision the widow�s likeliest reaction to the news, and wished he were where he could see her face. When she spoke again her voice gave no clue at all to her emotions:
�You�re quite sure it was Walter?�
�I�m afraid there�s little doubt, Mrs. Carson. A maid from the Donchester Hotel made a positive identification of him in the morgue this noon. I hurried here at once to present my sympathy and gather any information I can to the identity of his killer.�
�I... see. Then you haven�t caught the man?�
�We have absolutely nothing to go on, Mrs. Carson. There were no close witnesses. A pedestrian almost a block away heard the shot and saw an indistinct figure hurry away from the spot and drive off in an automobile that was parked nearby. Do you know anyone who had a motive for murdering your husband?�
�Certainly not. Walter did not have an enemy in the world. He was... a good man.� The last words were muffled and they were followed by a sob. Belle Carson was either genuinely grief-stricken, or putting on a good act. Good enough to fool Peter Painter at least, because his voice was gruffly sympathetic:
�There now. I realize what a shock this is for you. Perhaps you should sit down and rest for a moment.�
�Yes, I... do feel dizzy. I�ll sit... right here on the stairs.�
Shayne had tensed as Painter spoke, and glanced swiftly over his shoulder at the French doors leading out onto the terrace in case he had to move fast. But since the widow showed, no inclination to bring Painter into the room or give him any indication that she already had another visitor from Miami, he decided not to rush things, but tiptoed stealthily backward toward the fireplace without getting beyond the range of their voices.
�One very vital point in the case, Mrs. Carson, is the reason for your husband�s trip to Miami Beach yesterday. Can you tell me why he went? Whom he planned to see?�
�It was... just business. Something connected with the bank, I suppose. Walter didn�t... discuss business affairs with me very much.�
Shayne had reached the fireplace. He plucked the framed photograph of Belle from the mantelpiece and began moving cautiously back across the carpeted room toward the French doors.
�But this time didn�t he say anything at all to indicate it might have been a little different from an ordinary business trip? Didn�t he seem worried or keyed-up when he left? Didn�t he drop any hint at all, Mrs. Carson, about his plans in the city?�
�I don�t think so. I don�t remember anything. It was just a regular overnight trip, I guess.�
Shayne moved quietly around the end of the sofa to the French doors. He quietly turned the wrought iron knob of the nearest one, and it opened inward silently. Beyond was a sunlit, flagged terrace with comfortable canvas and aluminum lounging chairs scattered about. And beyond the end of the terrace was the garage and the gravelled area where his car was parked out of sight of anyone who stopped in the driveway beside the front porch as Painter had evidently done.
With a fast escape route open to him, Shayne stood just inside the doors to hear as much as he could of the interesting conversation from the hallway.
�We have reason to believe,� Painter was telling the banker�s widow solemnly, �that your husband had a definite and important engagement in the city of Miami this morning... that it was the primary purpose of his trip. Didn�t he tell you
�I�m sure he didn�t. I can�t remember anything.�
�Does the name of Michael Shayne mean anything to you. Mrs. Carson?�
�Michael Shayne?� She repeated it somewhat faintly.
�I... don�t... believe it does.�
�Can you give me
�A private detective?� From the tone of her voice Shayne knew she was hedging to gain time by repeating the chief�s words. He wondered if Painter realized it, too.
She said slowly, �I don�t believe it. Not Walter.�
�We have positive evidence, Mrs. Carson, that your husband made this trip for the express purpose of meeting Michael Shayne, a private detective in Miami with an exceedingly unsavory reputation, at nine o�clock this morning. Our only theory at the moment is that Mr. Carson was shot to prevent his keeping that appointment. This argues that his killer was aware of your husband�s intention, and had some strong motive for preventing his meeting with Shayne. So you see how very important it is for us to learn
�I see that. Of course. But I just don�t know... something to do with the bank, I suppose. That must be it. It couldn�t have been anything else. Have you asked them?�
�Not yet. I came directly here from the Beach. I will question the personnel of the bank in due course. One thing, though I
�Furthermore, Mrs. Carson, Shayne unexpectedly disappeared from Miami this morning and cannot be located in any of his favorite haunts. I gravely suspect that he knows a lot more about your husband�s death than he admits and is embarked on some nefarious affair of his own by which he hopes to profit by the information he illegally withheld from the proper authorities. He is a notorious money-grabber and will stop at nothing if he smells a chance to make a fast buck.�
Shayne grinned widely as he listened to Chief Painter�s unflattering characterization of himself.
�But why do you warn me about this private detective?�
�Because I have an idea he may turn up here in Denham like a bad penny and either threaten you with some form of blackmail or use other means to extort money from you. A common trick of his is to approach someone in your position and seek to obtain a large retainer for his services on the pretense that he has private information and is more capable than the police in solving a case. Which is utter nonsense, of course, but I warn you he is very persuasive and you must be on your guard against him. If he does show up, I want you to promise me to notify your local police at once. I will arrange with them to place him under arrest immediately.�
�What does this... Michael Shayne look like?�
�He�s big and uncouth and rangy and redheaded, Mrs. Carson.� Painter�s words were biting and acrid. �He manages to stay drunk nine-tenths of the time, and labors under the delusion that he is God�s gift to womankind. You�ll know him instantly if he shows up, and I�m certain you won�t be taken in by him.�
Shayne didn�t wait to hear more. He hadn�t the faintest idea how Belle Carson would react to the knowledge that the man Painter was warning her against was already in the drawingroom close by.
He slid through the door and drew it shut, trotted the length of the terrace and onto a path leading around the rear of the big house to his car.
He leaped in and closed the door quietly, started the motor without gunning it and saw that a dirt road led on past the garage and sloped down toward a citrus grove north of the house.
He slid away fast and quietly on the dirt road, glancing over his shoulder toward the sunlit terrace as he rounded the garage and put it effectively between his car and the house.
The terrace was still deserted and the French doors remained closed. Perhaps Belle wasn�t going to betray him to Painter after all. Perhaps she had reasons of her own for remaining silent about his visit. Perhaps, if he had waited a little longer...
But as he drove down the dirt road that angled along the citrus grove toward the county highway beyond the house, he knew it would have been senseless to delay his departure any longer.
Even if Belle had turned Painter away without telling him Shayne was there. Even if there was a lot of gin still left in the martini pitcher, and no matter how pleasant it might have been to dally with the voluptuous widow who didn�t seem too upset by the news of her husband�s death.
Because he was still at least one jump ahead of Peter Painter, and he had a good chance of staying that way if he moved fast and kept on moving.
Right now he wanted to get to Atlanta before Painter figured out that some of the answers might be found there. Mrs. Harvey Barstow had told him that Belle came from that city, and it was from Atlanta that her detective had written her he was on the trail of some scandal about the banker�s wife that would provide her with plenty of ammunition to halt Belle�s affair with Harvey.
The fact that she had heard nothing further from the detective and that he had not written for more money to continue his investigation was a strong indication that he
Because the wife of a banker was manifestly in a position to pay a great deal more to have unpleasant information suppressed than the wife of a mere teller in the bank. Indeed, Mrs. Barstow had explained that she had used up the last of her private savings and been forced to borrow from a friend to pay the detective�s last demand. Doubtless, she had been na�ve enough to tell the detective that fact at the time, and he had acted accordingly.
That was presupposing that the detective she had approached was one of the scavengers of the profession whom Shayne detested. And it seemed almost certain that he was that type from the fact that he had never reported back to Mrs. Barstow after taking her money for an investigation of Belle... and had even taken the precaution of changing his business address without leaving a forwarding address.
There were, Shayne knew, direct air connections between Tampa and Atlanta, and Tampa wasn�t more than an hour�s drive from Denham.
He turned north on the county highway when the dirt road led into it, and stepped the heavy car up to seventy along a straight stretch between neat orange groves, watching ahead for a turn westward that would put him back onto the direct route to Tampa.
True, he had little to go on when he did reach Atlanta. Just Mrs. Carson�s maiden name, Belle Brand, and the fact that she came from that city. But the other detective had managed to trace her without too much trouble, and Shayne felt he would be able to do at least as well. One thing more he had was the framed photograph of Belle that lay on the seat beside him. It was a good likeness and might help him cut some corners. Besides, there was the name of the photographer which he would try to decipher later.
He stepped on the brake and slowed fast as he came to a sign denoting a crossroads ahead, paused to read the signboard with an arrow pointing left which said,
He spun the wheel to the left and stepped up to seventy again, frowning while he strove to recall where he had heard of a town named Logan recently.
Then he remembered. From the hotel-keeper at lunch. Logan was the County Seat where Mr. Carson had taken his secretary to turn her into a bride. That meant the marriage license application would be recorded with the County Clerk.
His frown deepened as he tried to recall what vital information about the couple was required on a license application. It seemed to him that the former addresses of bride and groom were a part of the form. If that were so, here at hand was a chance to get another big jump ahead of Painter.
It shouldn�t take many minutes to find out, and he decided it was well worth wasting those few minutes, and he slowed as he approached Logan, apparently only slightly larger than Denham, and pulled smoothly to the curb in front of the shady courthouse lawn in the center of the village.
The stone steps leading up to the wide-open doors of the courthouse were well-worn, and the smell of disinfectant and sweeping compound inside the aged building was exactly the same as Shayne had encountered in scores of such public buildings in the past.
A large black-lettered sign with an arrow pointing down a corridor to the left said, COUNTY CLERK, and the detective followed it to a big room at the end with a breast-high counter behind which a pleasant and plump woman sat on a high stool looking exactly like every assistant county clerk Shayne had ever seen.
She was making meticulous entries in ink in a large ledger spread open on the counter in front of her, and she finished making a notation before looking up at him with eyebrows arched questioningly.
�Do you keep a file of applications for marriage licenses?� Shayne asked.
�Yes, we do.�
�Would it be possible for me to have a look at one from two or three years back?�
�Yes. If you can give me the name and year.�
�Carson,� Shayne told her, �and Brand. I�m not sure just what year it was.�
�Carson? Would that be Banker Carson from Denham?�
�Yes,� said Shayne thankfully. �W. D. Carson.�
She nodded, pursing her lips and tapping them with the end of her pen. �Nineteen fifty-five or fifty-six.� She slid off her stool with a nod, and went back through a door into an inner room.
Shayne lit a cigarette and leaned an elbow on the counter and waited patiently. The cigarette was not more than half-consumed when she came back with a large printed form which she placed in front of him. �December nineteen fifty-five,� she told him in a tone of pleased triumph. �I knew it was about that time because I remember when Mr. Carson came in just as well as if it was yesterday.�
Shayne glanced at the form swiftly and saw it was signed by both applicants for the license; Walter D. Carson and Belle Brand. But he was disappointed to learn that the State of Florida did not require a great deal of personal information about people who wanted to get married. The groom�s age was noted as 43, and the bride gave her age as 32. Both disclaimed any former marital experience, and both gave their addresses as Denham and their birthplaces as the USA. He studied it carefully, then courteously thanked the lady for her trouble and hurried out. He still had the photograph as a possible jumping-off place if the Atlanta directories didn�t help.
Less than an hour later he reached the outskirts of Tampa where he turned off the main route and drove directly to the airport without encountering heavy city traffic.
There, he got a real break. There was an Eastern Airlines plane due to depart for Atlanta in twenty minutes, and there was a vacant seat. He bought a round-trip ticket, learned that a return flight was scheduled to leave Atlanta at 5:58, and made a tentative reservation to return on it. That didn�t give him much time in the city, but he knew he could cancel by telephone if he saw he couldn�t make that flight.
The plane was loading passengers by the time he had his ticket in order, and not more than ten minutes later they were airborne.
Shayne settled back comfortably and unstrapped his seat-belt when the warning light went out, stretched his long legs out in front of him and lit a cigarette, and began a careful study of the photograph he had taken from the Carson mantelpiece.
His first quick look at it back in Belle�s presence had shown the name of the photographer in almost indecipherable script, though the words �Atlanta, Georgia� were in plain print.
He frowned as he studied the script, turning the picture to catch the afternoon light from the window beside him. It was a short name of six letters, and the capital D was obvious. It looked like an e after the D, and then the rest of it might be lain. Or, tair. Or, perhaps tam.
But that was good enough for his needs. Certainly there would not be many commercial photographers listed in the Atlanta Classified Directory beginning with De.
He settled back comfortably and closed his eyes and let the smooth droning of the plane�s engines lull him close to sleep as he thought back over the sequence of events since receiving the telephone call at Lucy Hamilton�s apartment late the previous night.
He went over each tiny bit of information he possessed, neatly cataloguing every item in his mind, searching for the truth, for some basic theme in the maze of irrelevancies had accumulated about the dead man.
Harvey Barstow? Could he be so infatuated with the banker�s wife that he would shoot a man to prevent his affair with her from being investigated by a private detective? He didn�t look the type, but with a woman like Belle you couldn�t be sure.
But the actual circumstances of Carson�s death appeared to rule Barstow out. It had all the earmarks of a carefully planned and meticulously timed encounter. He had been shot on the street by a person whose car was parked half a block away for a quick getaway.
That argued a definite ambush or someone who had followed him about the streets of Miami Beach waiting for a chance to strike unobserved.
Who could have known where Carson would be at a certain moment last night? Someone with whom he had an appointment? Someone whom he had contacted after reaching Miami?
There was that one telephone call Carson had made from his hotel room to the Park Plaza. Of course, he could have made any number of other calls from public phones during the course of the evening. And he could have received several calls in his room of which there would be no record.
The answer, Shayne was convinced, lay in the character of the banker�s wife, in the secret of her past that had been buried in Atlanta until some enterprising and unscrupulous private detective hired by Mrs. Barstow had ferreted it out and used it for purposes of his own.
The more he thought about Belle Carson in that context, the more puzzled Shayne became. There had been something exceedingly queer about the way she had received him at her home today. Painter�s statement that he labored under the delusion that he was �God�s gift to womankind� wasn�t quite true, though Shayne was perfectly aware that many women were physically attracted to him.
But he wasn�t that good, he told himself sourly. Strange women, and particularly women as attractive as Belle Carson didn�t make a practice of throwing themselves at him at first sight the way she had done. There had been something decidedly queer about her manner today. Almost as though she had expected him to show up when he did. As though she had known her husband would not come home unexpectedly and find them together.
She had claimed, of course, that she knew nothing about her husband�s reason for making the trip to Miami, and had denied to Painter any knowledge of Michael Shayne.
Yet, who was a husband more likely to confide in than his own wife? Who was more likely to know his personal habits and his plans for the evening than his own wife? Who, in short, had a better chance of fingering him for death on the street in Miami Beach than Belle?
Suppose Mrs. Barstow�s detective were blackmailing her for some secret he had learned about her past in Atlanta? Suppose Mr. Carson had learned about the blackmail, though not the exact reason for it? Might that not well be the �extremely confidential matter of the utmost importance� that Carson had mentioned in his letter asking Shayne for an appointment?
If she did know that was why her husband was going to Shayne and if her secret was so horrible she
Of course, all such speculation was useless at the moment, and Shayne generally left this sort of abstract theorizing to people like Painter while he was working on a case, but it had served to pass the time and it definitely added a certain piquancy to his relationship with the banker�s widow.
The redhead was the first one off the plane when it landed at the Atlanta airport, and without any baggage to delay him, he caught a taxi immediately and asked for the main public library.
There he sought out a reference room that had back issues of city directories. He first thumbed through the telephone book for 1955, and checked the list of �Brands� without finding a �Belle� among them.
He then turned from the telephone book to the City Directory for that year with the same negative result, sighed and scowled as he began a painstaking study of all the �Brand� families listed, seeking one with a daughter named �Belle.�
Again, he was unsuccessful, and he turned to the Classified Section for 1955 in the telephone book and turned to �Photographers, Commercial.�
There he struck his first pay-dirt. There had been a �Delain Studio� in business in 1955. To avoid possible waste of time he checked the current Classified Section and found the studio still listed.
He wrote down the address and hurried out, caught another taxi and gave the driver the number.
It was a ten-minute drive out from the business section of the city to a block of small shops built around a large super-market with a common parking center for all.
Shayne got out of the taxi in front of a small shop with a plate-glass window across the front filled with a display of photographs and with the sign �Delain Studio� over the door.
A bell rang in the rear as he entered a small, empty reception room, and as he hesitated there a young moppet of a girl emerged from behind a curtain with a welcoming smile on her big mouth.
She wore a shapeless smock that came down to her ankles, had attractively dishevelled ringlets of brown hair, and a thin face that was liberally sprinkled with attractive freckles.
The welcoming smile faded slightly from her wide mouth as she surveyed him, and Shayne realized he wasn�t the most promising sort of prospect for a portrait photographer. But her voice was liltingly pleasant as she advanced and asked impishly, �You want your pitcher took, Mister?�
Shayne grinned in response and asked, �Miss Delain?�
She shook her head and ran fingers through her curls. �I�m Marge Monroe.� She looked at him with open curiosity. �There never was a Miss Delain. I bought this shop from Mr. Delain a year ago.�
Shayne showed her the picture of Belle Carson, pointing to the signature at the bottom. �I�m trying to locate this woman, and this picture is all I have to go on. I imagine it was taken several years ago, and her name at that time would have been Belle Brand. Can you help me at all? Are there back files on previous customers?�
�Sure thing.� She was studying the picture absently, and the impish smile crossed her face again as she lifted her eyes to Shayne�s face. �Can�t say I blame a man for wanting to find that doll... if he was foolish enough to lose her. Sit down a moment and I�ll check the card index. Delain opened this studio in Fifty-three so there shouldn�t be many Brands. Belle, you say?�
Shayne nodded and said, �I�ll appreciate it a lot... Marge.�
Her smile was not so impish as she dropped him a tiny curtsey and went behind the curtain again.
There were two comfortable chairs in the waiting room, and Shayne sank into one of them and lit a cigarette.
Marge was back in less than five minutes. She shook her head as he got to his feet hopefully. �Sorry. No Brands in the file.�
�No Brands?� Shayne echoed.
�Nope. And every customer is card-indexed from the day Delain opened up for business.�
�But this picture was taken here,� persisted Shayne, holding it out again.
�Definitely. But it does happen sometimes that another person orders a job and pays for it. A girl�s parents or her boy-friend. In that case, the name of the subject wouldn�t be filed.�
Shayne said, �I hadn�t thought of that.� He looked down at Belle�s picture helplessly.
�I don�t know how important this is,� Marge said, flopping down into the other chair and burrowing in a pocket of her smock for a cigarette, �but if it means as much to you as the look on your face says it does... there is one possibility.�
She leaned over to puff on the match Shayne struck for her. �U-m-m. Thanks.�
�What�s that?� Shayne asked eagerly. �It
She gestured with her cigarette and her eyes glinted merriment as she said, �That�s more than I take in most days. What I was thinking... we do keep a file of negatives, you see. The ones selected by the customer to have printed. That�s because they often come back and order half a dozen more of the same, and we can just print them right up from the same negative.�
�Can you get the name of the purchaser from the negative?�
�Sure. Each one has a job number.� She looked at him curiously through curling blue smoke. �You don�t
�I�m a detective,� Shayne said bluntly. �And this woman is mixed up in a murder.�
�Gollee!� she squealed excitedly. �You want to come back and go through one batch of negatives while I try another?�
Shayne told her he�d like nothing better, and followed her back behind the curtain through a large room cluttered with focusing lamps on adjustable stands and three different types of cameras, into a rear office where she led him to three filing cabinets against the wall.
In a slot on the front of each drawer was a slip of cardboard bearing two typewritten numbers with a dash between them. 1�114; 114�202 and so on.
�Those are the job numbers in each drawer.� She indicated the cardboard slips. �Beginning with the summer of Fifty-three up to date. There�s a cross-index so we can get the name from the number when we find it. Where shall we start?�
�At the beginning, I think. And it can�t have been much later than the summer of Fifty-five.�
�That cuts it down a lot.� She drew the first drawer open and gestured toward numbered cardboard folders. �Each folder has a set of all the negatives the customer had printed up. Some of them are different... kids, maybe, or a husband and wife separately, so to be certain you�d better look at each negative.�
She stepped aside and drew out the next top drawer and said, �I�ll start with this which should be early Fifty-five, and work back.�
Shayne began lifting out each folder and opening it, taking out the negatives and holding them up to the light for a quick glance. Some folders had only one negative, others had several poses of the same person, and others had negatives showing two or more different subjects.
It took him twenty minutes to go through the first drawer, and Marge had already finished hers and started on the bottom one in his cabinet when she sank back on her heels with an exclamation and held up a negative for him to look at.
It was Belle all right. The same pose as the framed picture he had brought from Denham.
She checked the number, went to a circular file and spun it competently, sorted the cards for a moment and turned to him, saying, �The name here is Watson. Richard Watson.�
�Any other information about him?� Shayne asked her.
�Not here. This is just a cross-index.� She turned to a larger circular file that was arranged alphabetically, and disengaged a card after a moment which she handed to Shayne.
�WATSON, Richard� was typed at the top, followed by a street address and telephone number, and the date, �August 16, 1954.�
Below was the notation, �Belle, Mrs.� and some figures and hieroglyphics which Shayne did not understand.
As he stood looking at it stupidly, Marge leaned over and put her finger on the card:
�That means six shots were taken of Mrs. Belle Watson. She chose one of them and had half a dozen printed, two of them framed like yours. He paid the bill, twenty-eight fifty, the tenth of the following month.�
�But...
Marge Monroe shrugged elaborately. �All I know is what it says there. Mr. Delain was very careful about keeping records as you can see. You can be pretty sure that what�s written down there is what she told him when she had the job done. Naturally, he didn�t ask to see her wedding certificate.�
Shayne was still staring down at the card, trying to readjust his thoughts. He realized now that he hadn�t wasted those ten minutes spent in the Logan courthouse. Because this looked as though she had lied when she took out a license to marry Carson and stated she had never been married before. If she had concealed the truth from Carson...?
He shook his head angrily, putting aside the questions that could not be answered at this point.
He got out his wallet and took out a fifty-dollar bill, telling Marge, �I�d like to copy down this address... and you�ve more than earned this.�
Her eyes danced impishly as she got a sheet of paper and wrote down the information for him. �Is she really a murderer, do you think?�
Shayne said, �I�m not doing any more thinking at this point. But you�ve been swell and I�ll mail you a newspaper clipping when it�s all over.�
He hurried out of the studio to hail a taxi and be driven to the address where Mrs. Belle Watson had lived in August of 1954.
The taxi took him to a shabby residential section of the city, and the house number he sought was attached to a small, one-story house in the middle of a row of similar houses with small, tired-looking lawns in front.
A little girl of five or six was playing alone in the yard with a dirty rag doll as Shayne went up the walk, and she turned her head to watch him with grave interest as he knocked on the front door.
The door opened a cautious foot or so and a woman peered out at Shayne. She was thin and flat-breasted, with slatternly hair and a shrewish face. Her thin voice had a twangy note that matched her features:
�Whatever it is you�re selling, Mister, we don�t want none.�
Before she could close the door, Shayne said hastily, �I�m not selling anything, Ma�m. Just looking for information and I�m willing to pay for it.�
�That�s a new one,� she said grudgingly. �What kinda information?�
�About Richard Watson. Are you Mrs. Watson?�
�That I�m not. Who�s Richard Watson?�
�He used to live at this address. Three or four years ago.�
�Then I wouldn�t know, Mister. We just rented here two months ago.� She closed the door firmly and Shayne turned away, glancing at the houses on either side to see which looked the most promising.
The house on his left had a small front porch with two rockers on it, and he could see the bulky figure of a woman in one of the rockers. He strode directly across the lawn, saw that she was watching him with undisguised interest as he came up the front steps. She was middle-aged and comfortably plump. She wore a shapeless house-dress that was faded from many washings, and had gray hair drawn back tightly from smooth cheeks.
Shayne removed his hat and smiled his nicest smile and said, �Good evening. I wonder if you could help me with a little information about one of your neighbors.�
�If it�s the Moss� next door, I can only tell you, young man, that they keep to their side of the yard and we keep to ours. Not a speck neighborly, and if that�s the way they want it, mercy knows that�s the way they can have it.� Her voice was strong with a soft, cultivated southern accent, and there was a pleasant twinkle in the depths of her eyes. �Won�t you sit a spell?� She waved toward the other rocking chair and Shayne moved it a little closer, telling her: �It�s not the Moss�. The Watsons who lived in that house in nineteen fifty-four. Were you here then?�
�We�ve been here twenty years. Belle and Dick Watson, eh?� She sat up a little straighter with a look of keen anticipation on her face. �We can tell you plenty about
�Another one, Mother?� The voice was pleasant and clear, and the screen door was pushed open by a tall, wiry man in his shirtsleeves. He offered his hand politely as the redhead got up, and said, �Our name is Pease.�
�I�m Michael Shayne. A private detective from Miami.�
Mr. Pease took his hand firmly, but darted a quizzical glance at his wife as Shayne identified himself. �Maybe we�ll find out what it�s all about this time, Mother. We never did get it rightly clear what it was about Dick and Belle from the garbled-up things we heard about the other detective.�
She sniffed and said, �I never could understand why he didn�t come straight to us when we lived next door to them for years and could have told him anything he wanted to know.�
Shayne said, �You mean another detective from Miami has been around recently asking about the Watsons? What was his name? I know practically all of them in the city.�
�It was a few months ago,� said Mr. Pease, seating himself in the other rocking chair when Shayne gestured to it and lowered himself to the top step. �We guessed maybe Belle was wanting to get married again and had a detective looking for Dick to serve divorce papers on him. We never did get the other detective�s name rightly. Those he talked to in the neighborhood said he was the sneaky kind.�
�Is that why you�re here, Mr. Shayne?� Mrs. Pease asked eagerly. �I always said Belle wasn�t the kind to go very long without a man on the string, and the very worst thing Dick could have done to her was just exactly what he did. Left her high and dry, that�s what.� She chuckled amiably, wrinkling her eyelids at what was undoubtedly a most pleasant memory.
�Let�s get one thing straightened out the first thing we do,� said Shayne hastily. He produced the picture of Belle and handed it to the couple. �Is this a photograph of Belle Watson?�
They looked at it together, and both nodded their heads emphatically. �That�s Belle right enough,� said Mrs. Pease. �I recollect when she had that picture taken, Pa. It was in the summer. Just a month or so before it happened.�
�I remember, too,� Mr. Pease agreed soberly. He took a stubby pipe from his pants pocket and carefully loaded it from a leather pouch.
�Well, land sakes, Mr. Shayne, do tell us whatever you know about Dick,� said Mrs. Pease eagerly. �We�ve wondered and wondered. Such a nice man, he was. Deserving of better than Belle.�
�I hoped you�d be able to tell me,� said Shayne.
�You mean he never has shown up again and you�re still trying to trace him? You hear that, Pa? If Belle has got another man wound around her finger I bet she�s just near crazy not knowing where Dick is so she can sue for divorce. So she�s got two detectives looking for him now.� She chuckled again, folding her hands happily across her lap.
�Tell me all about them,� Shayne urged the couple. �What sort of people were they? What sort of lives did they live?�
�I guess you know Belle already if you�re working for her,� said Mrs. Pease. �Goodness knows what kind of lies she�s told you about Dick, she was that mad when he left her. But don�t you believe a word of it. If any man was ever driven away from his home it was Richard Watson. I�ve said it a hundred times and I�d say it right to her face if she was here now to hear me.�
�Now, Mother,� said Mr. Pease waving his pipe gently. �She did change a lot after it happened. I couldn�t help feeling sorry for her. Kind of wilted, she was. And she did buckle down and take that secretary�s course and go to work.�
�After she�d spent the last of his savings,� Mrs. Pease sniffed, �and it was perfectly clear he hadn�t any intention of coming back to support her any more. She changed all right after she lost a good, steady provider and didn�t have his weekly pay-check to waste on drinking in bars and all.�
�Dick Watson was a fine steady worker,� Pease told Shayne. �Head bookkeeper for the Barnett Lumber Mills here in Atlanta. I guess you�ve heard of the Barnett family even in Miami.�
The name did strike a faint chord in Shayne�s memory. He wrinkled his brow and asked, �Was there something in the newspapers?�
�I guess there was plenty in papers all over the country when their little boy was kidnapped. They got the boy back and caught the kidnapper right after Dick left home. Police and FBI were even around here asking questions just because Dick had worked there so many years. It made Belle mad because the papers made so much of that and didn�t print any big stories about her husband leaving her. But I remember one reporter I talked to from the
�Now, Mother,� said Mr. Pease reprovingly, �Mr. Shayne isn�t interested in what any reporter said to you. Tell him about the Watsons when they first moved in next door and what led up to him walking out on her. I reckon that�s the kind of thing he wants.�
Shayne lit a cigarette and hugged his knees and listened patiently to the story of the Watsons as it poured from the eager lips of the elderly couple, interrupting now and then to ask a pertinent question to get the background clear in his mind.
In essence, this was the drab story of the decline and disintegration of a marriage as Shayne extracted it from the Watsons� next-door neighbors.
Richard and Belle Watson had moved into the neighborhood and rented the five-room house next door in 1947 or 1948, while Belle was still a gay and (according to Mr. Pease) beautiful bride. Richard Watson had been of a different temperament from Belle, and the Peases tried to be fair by agreeing that it was difficult for a woman of her volatile disposition to settle down to humdrum housewifery, and they felt it was too bad there hadn�t been a child to give her roots, so to speak. Not that Belle had really wanted a child, Mrs. Pease averred strongly, but Dick was the type to have made a wonderful father. He was a good neighbor and a good citizen, one who paid household bills promptly on the tenth of each month, drove a respectable secondhand car to and from work, and spent his evenings at home puttering around the house and lawn. He was a friendly man, well-liked by his neighbors and a confidant of most of the youngsters in the block.
But Belle Watson, Shayne gathered, was a different kettle of fish. She was inclined to consider herself above her neighbors, though, goodness knows, the Peases didn�t know why, for she was a slovenly housekeeper and a discontented wife.
Things hadn�t been too bad the first year or so of their marriage, but after that Belle took to going out a lot in the daytime while Mr. Watson was at work, and there were many rumors and much speculation as to what she did while absent from home.
Mr. and Mrs. Pease were scrupulously honest in agreeing that there had been no direct evidence that Belle had been unfaithful to her wedding vows, but they did agree that no one could deny that she often returned late in the afternoon in a taxi obviously intoxicated; and the number of empty bottles that were known to accumulate in the Watsons� garbage each week were definite proof that she also did a lot of drinking at home, because it was well-known that Mr. Watson was a strict teetotaller.
And she was known throughout the neighborhood as a nagging wife who was discontented with her husband�s modest salary and inclined to live beyond it; and it was the consensus that the poor man had been badgered and bullied by her into doing what he finally did on the quiet Sunday evening preceding Labor Day of 1954.
Because this was the most dramatic event that had ever directly impinged on the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Pease, they remembered every moment of that entire Sunday very clearly and insisted on describing the day in minute detail though Shayne did his best to hurry the telling along as he kept glancing at his watch and departure time for his plane grew closer and closer.
Richard Watson had stayed home all that day as usual, working around the yard some and passing pleasantries with the Peases as they rocked comfortably on their front porch, and there hadn�t been any indication they could see that he was nerving himself up to his final action that evening.
Belle, on the other hand, hadn�t been in evidence all day. They knew she was at home, and could only surmise that she had been sitting in the house sullenly drinking by herself because she certainly was well along in her cups at dusk that evening when they observed Mr. Watson emerge from the kitchen door carrying a shabby brown suitcase in his hand, and she followed him out onto the back stoop, railing at him like a fishwife (though they couldn�t distinguish her words from where they were sitting in these very rockers).
But they did clearly see the husband stalk away from her and place the suitcase in the back of his shabby sedan parked in the driveway, and then back out carefully while she remained at the back door with her hair awry while she gesticulated angrily.
And he had glanced at them with a pleasant smile as he backed past on the driveway, and even lifted his hand in a sort of wry acknowledgement of their interest in the marital drama, but neither of them had the slightest idea that was the last they would ever see of Richard Watson.
But it proved to be the last anyone ever saw of Richard Watson.
He simply backed out of the driveway and drove away into the dusk, leaving a drunken wife and a rented house and a secure job behind him.
Belle never heard from him again. He and his secondhand sedan disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed him up, and goodness knows what had happened to him, and Belle kept saying she was sure he was dead and how much better it would be if she just
So now, they were eager to know what the Miami detective knew about Richard Watson. Had he ever been found and were they right in guessing that Belle had hired him to find her missing husband so she could get a divorce?
Shayne parried their questions as best he could, evasively explaining that he hadn�t actually been retained by Belle, but that he�d heard indirectly that she had gone to another state to take a secretarial position in a bank, and it was well after five-thirty when he was finally able to break away from their questions and hurry out to the street to hail a passing cab to take him to the airport.
He made it with only minutes to spare and boarded the Tampa plane just as the stairway was about to be rolled away, and settled back in his seat for the return trip with a lot to think about.
So belle had not only committed perjury when she applied for a marriage license with Walter Carson in 1955, but it appeared almost certain that she had committed bigamy as well.
Of course, the Peases were not in a position to know definitely that she had not obtained a divorce in the meantime. Divorces are granted in some states for desertion, but not unless the other party was available to have papers served on him so he could answer the charge.
Shayne knew, of course, that there is a legal provision that a person can be declared dead by the courts after he has been missing for seven years, and also that there is some sort of Enoch Arden ruling that grants a divorce in case there is a strong presumption of death � such as a soldier being officially reported missing in action.
But neither of these provisions seemed to apply to the Watson case, and as the plane carried him back to Tampa, Shayne was morally certain that proof of bigamy was what Mrs. Barstow�s detective had dug up against Belle in his Atlanta investigation.
That was certainly something she would wish to conceal from her staid banker husband. No wonder the detective had reported to Mrs. Barstow that he was on the trail of evidence that would effectually stop Belle in her tracks and force her to give up her affair with Harvey Barstow. After learning as much as Shayne had today and realizing it was most probable she had committed bigamy, he would have used the extra money from Mrs. Barstow to complete his investigation by studying the records and ascertaining that no divorce had been granted to her prior to her marriage with Carson.
With that knowledge, an astute and crooked operator would be in a position to put on the pressure for plenty of money. Having never met Carson, Shayne could not accurately gauge what the banker�s reaction would have been to such knowledge, but it was reasonable to assume that no respected president of a small-bank would condone bigamy.
So this could well be the motive for murder. He had gone to Atlanta wondering if any secret about Belle�s past was sufficiently important for her to have arranged her husband�s murder to prevent his becoming aware of it.
And now he had bigamy for his answer.
Until he knew the answers to these questions, Shayne knew it was utterly useless for him to theorize further. And with Carson dead, there was only one place he could go to get the answers.
That was back to Belle in Denham, and he settled back on the plane with what patience he could muster to await a further interview with the widow.
Dinner was served on the plane before it reached Tampa, and the only thing Shayne lacked in his belly was a couple of large-size slugs of cognac as he hurried to his parked car and began the drive back to Denham.
But he didn�t take time out to stop at a roadside bar to fulfill that bodily need. It would be late in the evening, now, before he could reach Denham and he didn�t want to postpone a second interview with Mrs. Carson for another night. There was no telling what Peter Painter had turned up during the afternoon in town, but it was certain that the bank employees would have told him about Shayne�s visit, and the fact that the redhead had reached town ahead of him would convince him that Shayne had been holding out information from the beginning.
That was enough on which to base a warrant for Shayne�s arrest, and he hadn�t the slightest doubt that it would be served the moment Painter or any of his men caught sight of him.
So he had a few hours, maybe, to get in under the wire ahead of Painter and solve the case before he found himself behind bars where he could never solve it.
He increased the weight of his foot on the accelerator as the black strip of macadam in front of him stretched straight out into the night in a southeasterly direction. He didn�t think Painter would expect him back in Denham even though he did know Shayne had engaged a hotel room there and left a suitcase in it. He did suspect, however, that the Beach chief would have arranged to have a guard posted at the Carson house to prevent his interviewing the widow (in case she hadn�t told him that noon that Shayne had already been there); and when he finally reached the crossroads where he had turned off the County road to Tampa earlier, he took the same road back past the Carson estate instead of following the main route into town.
A three-quarter moon had moved up over the horizon while he drove from Tampa, and he slowed after a few miles, peering ahead and seeking the dirt road that led up along the edge of the orange grove to the rear of the banker�s house.
He came to it finally, and turned off, switching off his headlights just as he made the turn, and slowing to a snail�s pace while his eyes accustomed themselves to the moonlight and the absence of white beams directly ahead.
He followed the rutted road as much by instinct as by sight, and soon was able to make out dimly-lit windows of the big house on the knoll half concealed by the grove of oak trees.
He remembered how the garage had hidden his car from the house for a short distance that afternoon when he drove away, and when a black hulk blotted out the house lights tonight, he slowed even more, bringing the car to a gentle halt just as he began to round the curve that brought the house into view again.
The night silence lay heavy on the knoll overlooking Denham as Shayne stepped out of the car onto the grass. He closed the door behind him with a gentle click and moved forward on the grass toward the terrace on the side of the big house.
Light shone dimly through curtained windows and the French doors onto the terrace, glinting on the aluminum of lounging chairs and outdoor tables, and as he approached, Shayne dimly made out the figure of a woman dressed in white relaxed at full-length in one of the long chairs.
He stopped for a moment at the end of the terrace, crouching to backlight the whole surface against the dim lights from windows and doors, and saw that the woman was Belle and that she was alone.
Her right arm lifted as he hesitated there, and he heard the clink of glass against a metal table-top as the arm lowered again. He straightened and moved forward along the edge of the terrace until he was opposite her, and then stepped up and forward so that he was looking directly down at her.
Belle made no movement, but her eyes were wide open, staring up directly at him without alarm and, so far as he could see, without surprise.
She said, �So it�s you back again, Red.� Her voice was thick with liquor and the words were softly slurred, but perfectly clear. �I thought you would be back.�
Shayne said, �I�ve been to Atlanta, Belle.�
He moved around behind her and pulled up a straight-back chair close to the table on which stood the martini pitcher and her glass.
She said, �You made a fast trip.�
Shayne lifted her glass and drank from it. From the taste, he judged it contained the same mixture of gin and nothing that she had been drinking that noon. He wondered how many pitchers she had emptied since he left her in the house with Painter.
He lit a cigarette and asked casually, �Did you tell Peter Painter that I had been talking to you?�
�The cute little detective from Miami Beach? I didn�t think it was any of his business, Red. Did you kill Walter?�
�That�s a hell of a question.�
�He thinks you did... or had something to do with it.�
Shayne said shortly, �I don�t make a practice of bumping off my clients... or prospective clients either. Why did Walter want to see me?�
�Don�t you really know?� She reached out for the glass and drank from it deeply.
�I got some ideas in Atlanta. I want you to confirm them.�
�I told you today that Walter didn�t confide in me.�
�How much did you confide in him?�
�What about, Red?�
There was an unreal quality about the question-and-answer session that bothered Shayne tremendously. Her voice was languid and slurred and he knew she must be very drunk indeed, yet she appeared to be in full possession of her faculties. On the other hand, she appeared to be more amused than alarmed by his reappearance and his questions. It was as though she had no personal interest in the matter under discussion. As though she remained completely untouched by her husband�s death and by Shayne�s allusion to Atlanta.
�About neglecting to get a divorce before you married him, for one thing.�
She said, �Oh, that?� and her voice expressed utter contempt for such legalities.
�You admit you didn�t?�
�I�m admitting nothing, Red. Look. You�re acting stone cold sober. Whyn�t you pour some more from the pitcher and try to catch up with me?�
�How did Walter feel about the bigamy charge?� persisted Shayne.
�You mean when that other louse of a stinking private eye brought it up, Red?�
�Sure. I�ve forgotten his name.�
�I never knew his name myself. You in cahoots with him, Red?�
�No. Did he come to Walter instead of you with the bigamy thing?�
�Course he hit Walter! Wanted a pay-off, didn�t he? Who the hell you think is the money-bags around this house?� She reached out gropingly for the glass beside her without looking at it. There was half an inch of liquid in the bottom, and Shayne watched her drain it in the moonlight. He reached out to retrieve the empty glass from her listless fingers, and set it down out of her reach.
�How much?� he asked quietly.
�How much what, Red?�
�How much money did he hit Walter for?�
�I dunno. Not too heavy, I guess. Walter said I wasn�t to worry about it. Whyn�t you move over closer to me, Red?�
Shayne moved his chair a little closer to hers. She lifted her hand and moved it toward him, and he enclosed it between his palms. Her eyes were closed and she said dreamily, �You know what, Red?�
�What?�
�I sure didn�t think you were any detective when you first showed up this morning.�
�Didn�t you?�
�Hell, no.� Her voice was quite belligerent. �Why should I? You don�t look like a detective.�
�What do detectives look like?�
�You know. Know what I did think at first, Red?�
�No. What did you think at first?�
�That Whitey�d sent you. That�s why I made that fast play for you. Remember?�
Shayne said, �I remember. But I didn�t know that was why.� He wanted to ask her who Whitey was, but restrained himself. Her eyes remained closed and her voice was somnolent. In her present mood she might tell him anything if she weren�t aroused from it.
�That was why at first. Until you kissed me, Red.�
Shayne didn�t bother to mention the fact that his recollection of the incident was that she had kissed him. �After that, you
�After that, I didn�t give a damn,� she told him. She turned on her side toward him and her fingers tightened on the flesh of his palm. Her eyes remained closed but her lips were wetly parted. �Do it again, Red.�
�What?�
�Kiss me so I won�t give a damn again.� Her voice was thicker than before and he realized she was slipping away into an alcoholic stupor. He released one hand from hers and bent forward a little to press fingertips against her parted lips. The tip of her hot tongue came out to move against the calloused flesh.
He said roughly: �Listen to me, Belle.�
She complained, with her lips pressed hard against his hand, �You talk too much, Red.�
�There�ll be time for other things later. Right now, I�ve got to move fast to find your husband�s killer. You want that, don�t you?�
�What good�ll it do? Walter�s dead.�
�Did you kill him, Belle?� Shayne�s voice was fiercely urgent. �Did you set him up on that street corner for a bullet in his forehead?�
She remained lying indolently facing him with her eyes lightly closed. In the moonlight he could not detect the faintest quiver of emotion on her smooth face.
�Suppose I told you I did, Red? What kind of guy are you? Would you arrest me and let me burn for it?� There was a queer sort of eagerness in her reply, a sense of ghoulish anticipation.
Shayne asked harshly, �Did you?�
�Would you like me better if I said yes? How do you get your kicks, Red? Is that what you look for in a woman? There was something about you when you first looked at me today, Red. Something that went right through me. What makes you tick, Red? Tell me and let�s tick together.�
Her fingers gripped his hand fiercely, tugging to pull him closer to her. Her eyes opened abruptly under his gaze and flame glinted there in the moonlight. She had the tips of his fingers between her white teeth and was biting hard into the flesh and bone. There was something utterly wanton and primitive about her, and an instinctual drive deep within Shayne�s body responded to the naked lust that called out to him from her in the night.
He found himself leaning closer and closer to her and her breathing became ragged and harsh in the silence, and then there was another sound that impinged on the pounding of blood in his eardrums.
A slight, grating sound from beyond the terrace, but completely alien in the night silence.
He continued leaning toward her, but lifted his eyes to look beyond her to the edge of the terrace without otherwise changing his posture.
He saw a faint glint of moonlight on blued steel and the dim outline of a crouching figure blurred against the background of green shrubbery. Light from behind him faintly touched the hawklike, pallid features of a man he had never seen before.
His muscles tensed and he slowly got his feet solidly underneath him as he bent closer to brush his lips across her forehead.
Without warning, he launched his body across hers toward the crouching figure, smashing her lounging chair to the floor of the terrace with the weight of his body at the instant that a tongue of flame lanced at them from the glint of steel.
The bullet raked his left bicep, passing inches above Belle�s body as it struck the floor, and there was a crashing sound in the shrubbery as Shayne disentangled himself from her chair and leaped off onto the grass.
He hesitated a second, heard fleeing footsteps to his left around the front of the house, started running in that direction but came to an abrupt halt when a motor roared loudly by the front porch.
He turned back, saw one of the French doors swing open and the figure of the colored man-servant dart out onto the terrace and bend over the figure of his mistress whom Shayne knew was not harmed.
He circled back swiftly around the shrubbery and beyond the range of light, reached his own car and leaped in, turned on the headlights, started the motor and lunged forward around the garage and into the driveway from the rear of the house just in time to see red taillights turning into the highway at the end of the gently curving drive.
He stepped on the accelerator and gained speed down the slope braking hard at the end of the driveway when he saw a car parked without lights just inside the turnoff.
His headlights showed the insignia, �DENHAM P. D.� in large white letters on the side of the car, and he slammed to a stop beside it at sight of a uniformed figure slumped behind the wheel.
He got out and jerked the door of the police car open, felt first for the man�s steady pulse, and then found a large lump on the side of his head just above his left ear.
He slammed the door shut and grimly got back into his own car and pulled away fast. It was a cinch the Carson servant would already be phoning in an alarm about the attack on his mistress, and he would have a hard time explaining his presence in the vicinity if he were caught there now.
There were no street lights in Denham, but several of the business establishments were lighted as Shayne turned into Main Street, and the Traveller�s Rest Hotel was one of them. Shayne drove past the hotel slowly and without slacking speed when he saw a police car parked conspicuously in front. His suitcase with its half-bottle of cognac would have to remain there under police guard until a more opportune time to pick it up.
Beyond, at the town�s single traffic light, the plate-glass windows of the modernistic bank building blazed with light. Shayne calculated his speed so he had to ease to a stop for the changing light, and a side glance showed two figures inside the bank busily at work at their desks. One of them was Harvey Barstow.
The redhead pulled smoothly ahead when the light changed, and turned in at a filling station a few blocks ahead. He told a coveralled youth to fill his gas tank, and got out to stand beside him while gasoline gurgled through the flexible tube.
He agreed that it was a nice night, a little cool, mebbe, for Florida even in January, but real nice anyhow. Then he asked, �Doesn�t a man named Barstow live in Denham? I�m just driving through from Tampa and I�ve been trying to remember...� He let his voice trail off as though he were still trying to remember, and the attendant said briskly: �Harve Barstow? Works in the bank?�
�Yeh. Harve.� Shayne chuckled. �Working in a bank now, huh? Married, too, isn�t he?�
�Sure is. Say, you hear about the excitement here in town? Harve�s boss in the bank was murdered in Miami last night. Way I heard it there was a gang figgering on holding up the bank and Mr. Carson, he went in to put the law on �em and they shot him dead.�
Shayne said, �That�s a hell of a note. Where does Harve live? I might stop by a minute.�
The gasoline stopped gurgling and the youth removed the metal nozzle and hung it up. �Right ahead two blocks and you make a right turn and it�s the second house on the right. That�ll be four sixty-five. Puhlenty of excitement here today, I can tell you. Detectives from Miami all over town. Some says there was FBI men too.� He took Shayne�s five-dollar bill and asked briskly, �Check your oil and water?�
Shayne said, �Everything�s okay.� He waited to get his change, got in and drove two blocks more and made a right turn. The second house on the right was an old frame two-story house that needed paint but had a wide well-tended lawn. There was one car parked in front and another in the driveway. He slowed almost to a stop as he passed, and grimaced when he saw three women seated in the living room through uncurtained front windows.
He increased his speed to the next corner, turned left and then left again back to the highway, and then right in the direction of Miami. He pulled in to the next open filling station he came to, parked inconspicuously beyond the lighted area of the gasoline pumps, and walked back briskly to the small office, noting the name over the door, MONTY�S SERVICE STATION.
He told the attendant he wanted to make a phone call, and looked up the number of the Barstow residence in the well-thumbed book hanging by a chain beside the public telephone.
He called the number and Mrs. Barstow�s voice answered after several rings, �Hello?�
He said, �Listen to me for a moment, Mrs. Barstow, and don�t say anything out loud if you can be overheard. This is Michael Shayne. I�m in town and I must see you at once.�
He heard a sibilant gasp of surprise from the other end as he hesitated, and he guessed that the telephone must be where her visitors could hear her.
�Just answer yes or no,� he went on swiftly. �Can you get away at once and drive out on the Miami road to meet me without telling anyone where you�re going?�
�Y-yes. Of course I can. Right away.� Her voice was stronger on the last two words.
�I�m calling from Monty�s Filling Station. As soon as I hang up I�ll drive down the highway toward Miami to the first turn off to the right. I�ll turn there and stop just off the road and leave my parking lights on. Do you understand all right?�
�Of course. I�ll be down to pick you up right away, Harvey. Mrs. Eldreth and Sue Parson are here and they�re just dying to hear all about everything. They�ll stay with the children.�
She hung up and so did Shayne. He went out into the coolness of the night and back to his car with a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. A dilapidated pick-up truck was getting gas and the attendant didn�t glance at him. Had Mrs. Barstow been a little too pat, a little too quick to agree to meet him? It was a cinch that Painter had interviewed Harvey this afternoon, and warned him against Shayne, and Harvey would certainly have told his wife. Under the circumstances, would she have confided in Harvey that she had driven to Miami last night to interview Shayne? If so, might Harvey have arranged with her to trap the detective if he tried to contact her later?
Shayne just didn�t know. What man could ever know what any woman was likely to do? It was a chance he had to take because he desperately needed a certain piece of information which only Mrs. Harvey Barstow could furnish him.
He drove slowly away from Monty�s Filling Station, followed the highway eastward to the first road turning off to the right.
He pulled to the side two hundred feet beyond the highway, and turned off the ignition and switched his lights down to �Parking.� Then he lit a cigarette and relaxed behind the wheel and waited to see whether Mrs. Barstow or a police car would keep the rendezvous with him.
He hadn�t long to wait. His cigarette was not more than half-smoked when headlights made a sweeping curve off the highway behind him and were brilliantly reflected in his rear-view mirror for a moment as the car pulled in behind his and stopped, and the lights were turned out.
Shayne exhaled deeply as he leaned forward to turn his out also. Then he got out and walked back to the four-year-old Plymouth in which he had watched Mrs. Barstow drive away from his hotel the preceding midnight.
She was at the wheel, and alone. Her plump features and taffy-colored hair with the Dutch bangs looked out at him in the moonlight, but they were strained now, and her eyes were rounder than when he had first introduced himself to her.
�Oh, Mr. Shayne,� she ejaculated in a wretched voice. �I�m so horribly worried and frightened. I just don�t know whatever I should do.�
Shayne put a reassuring hand on the round arm that lay along the top of the door. �Just take it easy, Mrs. Barstow. You�ve done fine, coming out to see me like this.� He squeezed the soft flesh, went around the car to get in the front seat beside her. �No one knew you came?�
�No. I had company when you phoned. I told them... that Harvey was ready to come home and I was going to pick him up. Please tell me what to
�Of course I didn�t do it.� Shayne was genuinely astonished. �Why should
�I don�t know. I just don�t know,� she moaned. �Harvey said the policeman from Miami Beach said awful things about you. And I remember how you looked standing there last night when I drove away, and how you promised me so nice that I wasn�t to worry and everything would be all right. And then I couldn�t help thinking and wondering about what happened... and thinking that if... well, if you did see Mr. Carson and he got real nasty about Harvey and all... that maybe you, Oh, I just don�t
Despite the anguish in her voice, Shayne couldn�t repress a faint grin as he said, �You�ve been thinking that perhaps I did it for you? Killed Mr. Carson because you asked me to help Harvey? Forget it. You haven�t checked the time sequences carefully or you�d realize that Carson was dead before I ever met you. Your coming to Miami had nothing to do with it. Do you understand?�
�He was? How do you know?�
�I know,� Shayne told her shortly. �And I had nothing whatever to do with it. Moreover, I�m beginning to doubt whether the affair your husband and Belle Carson were having had anything to do with his murder either... except perhaps very indirectly. Get that in your mind and hold onto it.�
�You don�t? You really mean...?�
�At the moment, I�m doing a lot of guessing,� Shayne told her impatiently. �One thing I am sure about: Your trip to Miami had no bearing at all on Carson�s murder. He was dead before you reached the city... before I�d even ever heard of him. Right now, I need the name and present address of the first detective you contacted in Miami. The one who took your money to investigate Belle Carson in Atlanta and never turned in a report to you.�
�Didn�t I tell you his name last night? I thought I did. It was Walsh. Jeffery Walsh. He had an office in Miami. It was on First Street, I think. Or First Avenue. But I told you how my latest letter to that address came back saying he was no longer there.�
Shayne said, �Walsh?� ruminatively. The name was tantalizingly familiar to him though it didn�t strike any real chord in his memory.
�I remember you telling me about your letter being returned. But I want you to think hard and tell me this. In these last few months has your husband hinted anything about the possibility that Mr. Carson was being blackmailed by Walsh?�
�Blackmailed? No. I never even thought...�
�It was obvious from what you told me last night,� Shayne pointed out impatiently, �that your detective had withheld whatever derogatory information he dug up on Belle from you because he thought there were better pickings in it for him by blackmailing Belle or her husband. It�s an old stunt among unscrupulous private detectives,� he went on angrily. �Unfortunately, my profession has its share of crooks. I�m positive that�s what Walsh has been doing, and I wonder if Harvey wasn�t aware of it.�
�Harvey? Why would he know about it? I never even told him one word about going to Mr. Walsh.�
�But he acted as Mr. Carson�s secretary,� Shayne reminded her. �For instance, he typed the letter written to me making an appointment for this morning. I thought he might have just mentioned it to you in passing... something about Carson sending sums of money to Walsh at a new address...�
He paused hopefully, looking sideways at her in the moonlight, but Mrs. Harvey Barstow shook her head helplessly. �He didn�t. Not if he knew or even suspected, he didn�t.�
�So you haven�t any idea what Jeffery Walsh�s present address may be?�
�No. I don�t. If I did,� she added with unexpected spirit, �I�d been after him about all that money he got from me without giving me anything in return for it.�
Shayne sighed and lit a cigarette. �How late do you think Harvey will work at the bank tonight?�
�Goodness knows. He was all keyed-up at supper... about Mr. Carson being killed and the detective telling him he shouldn�t have talked to you in the bank at all. He keeps on acting like he thinks all of it had something to do with the accounts in the bank, and he keeps going over things trying to find out why Mr. Carson wanted to see you. Maybe that�s what he
�I think it was just in your own mind that you suspected that,� Shayne told her gravely. �Right now, I have strong evidence that points to another reason for Carson wishing to contact me. If you drive home now, without Harvey,� he went on abruptly, �what will you tell the women visitors in your house?�
�I�ll tell them... well, that when I got to the bank something else had come up to detain Harvey and he couldn�t come with me.�
Shayne said, �Then I think you�d better be getting back.� He unlatched the door on his side and got out, went around to her door and paused there. �You won�t tell anyone you saw me tonight?�
�Why should I? What could I tell them? No one knows I ever met you, Mr. Shayne. No one has to now, do they?� Her voice was warm and pleading.
Shayne said, �I don�t think so. Go on home to your children, Mrs. Barstow. Stop feeling guilty about last night. I give you my positive assurance that Mr. Carson�s death did not result from anything you did.�
She smiled tremulously at him in the moonlight, tears glinting in her round eyes and her lower lip caught tightly between her teeth.
She said softly, �Thank you, and... thank you.�
Shayne nodded and moved away from her up to his car. She started her motor and backed away, made a U-Turn, and he watched her tail-lights disappear in his rear-view mirror as she turned back onto the highway.
He lit a cigarette and sighed and started the motor and also made a U-Turn. He had one more stop to make in Denham before getting back to Miami as fast as he could.
Shayne turned off Denham�s main street two blocks before reaching the traffic light. He parked his car near the corner, walked the two blocks parallel to Main, then turned toward the light, and the bank squatting on the corner.
Halfway up the block an alley led behind the bank, and Shayne turned into the darkness of the ally gratefully. There were no windows at the rear of the bank building along the alley, but there was a solid iron door set in the middle of the brick wall, and the detective paused in front of it meditatively. There was an electric button in the casing beside the door which Shayne assumed would summon one of the two men if he pressed it, but he hesitated to do so because he knew the slightest miscalculation at this point would almost certainly bring the town cops down on him fast.
Yet, he had to see Barstow before taking off for Miami.
While he hesitated in the dark alley in front of the door, the problem was resolved for him. Inside, he heard the rasp of a bolt being withdrawn, and he stepped in quickly, flattening himself against the wall as the door was pushed open. A tall man stepped into the alley, holding the door ajar behind him, and Shayne recognized Vice-President Martin as he half-turned to say, �Good night then, Harvey. Are you sure you don�t want a lift home?�
�Thanks, Mr. Martin, but I�ll be another half hour at least. I�ll call my wife to pick me up.� It was Barstow�s voice, coming through the door opening from some distance, and the vice-president closed the door solidly and walked away from Shayne toward the street.
The detective waited a few minutes and then stepped back to the door and pressed the button. He didn�t know whether there was any prearranged signal for the use of the button or not, but hoped Barstow would think Martin had forgotten something and was seeking re-admittance.
He waited for at least ninety seconds before the door again opened, a cautious crack this time, and Barstow�s voice asked, �Is that you, Mr. Martin?�
Shayne�s hand was on the knob, and he pulled hard and stepped forward at the same time. Harvey Barstow confronted him in the lighted corridor, a ludicrous expression of surprise and fear blending on his pudgy features, his right hand gripping the butt of a stubby Banker�s Special.
�What are you doing here?� His voice trembled and he took a backward step, half-lifting the revolver to point it at Shayne.
Shayne grinned and said placatingly, �I�m not going to rob your bank, Barstow. Point that thing the other way. I just wanted a word with you.�
Barstow looked down at the revolver and lowered it hesitantly. �I can�t talk to you. I promised Mr. Painter I�d report to the police at once if you came back. He told me...�
�I�m sure Painter told you all sorts of things,� Shayne interrupted. �You can notify the police after you�ve answered a couple of questions.�
�No, Mr. Shayne.� Barstow�s voice was still shaky, but it was doggedly determined. �You stand right where you are while I...�
Shayne lunged at him and his left hand shot out to engulf the short-barreled weapon in Barstow�s hand. He wrested it away from the bank teller and stepped back, dropping it into his coat pocket and growling, �You can call the cops later. Right now you�re going to listen to me.�
Barstow wet his lips nervously and said, �But Mr. Painter told me he has proof you�re at least an accessory in Mr. Carson�s murder.�
�He hasn�t proof of anything,� Shayne snorted. �Did he ask you any questions about the blackmail Carson has been paying recently?�
�Blackmail? I don�t know what on earth you�re talking about.�
�I think you do, Barstow. You�re his secretary and write all his letters. Oh, you may not have realized the payments were blackmail. No reason for him to tell you that. But you must know he was paying out money to a man named Jeffery Walsh.�
�I don�t know anything about it,� Barstow insisted. �I don�t handle his private checkbook. He keeps that at home.�
�But you�ve seen letters to Walsh... or from him. I want his address.�
�I swear I haven�t. See here, Mr. Shayne.� Barstow was recovering his bravado now. �You haven�t any rights here. Mr. Martin and I know now that we were wrong in letting you in the bank today. You fooled us by claiming Mr. Carson had retained you, but we know now that he was killed last night before he ever reached your office. You got in here and went through his desk by false pretense today, and Mr. Painter says that�s a criminal offense. There�s a warrant out for your arrest right now.�
�And you�re going to be a big brave boy scout and turn me in, huh?� growled Shayne.
�I can�t do anything else. Even if you shoot me for it.�
�Forgetting Carson�s checkbook and his payments to Walsh,� said Shayne swiftly. �When you wrote to the hotel and to me in Miami, making the reservation and an appointment, who else did he write to for an appointment? Maybe he didn�t use the name of Walsh.�
�I don�t think... I�m sure he made no other appointments on this trip.�
�Think, damn it.� Shayne stepped forward and caught his shoulder and shook him roughly. �Forget what Painter said about me. Remember, I cashed Carson�s check today which officially made him a client of mine even if he was dead at the time. I want to know who else he was seeing in Miami... particularly an address.�
�You don�t have to manhandle me, Mr. Shayne,� said Barstow with sullen dignity as he tried to shake off Shayne�s hand. �I�m telling you the simple truth. So far as I know he planned to meet no one else in Miami.�
Shayne tightened his grip on his shoulder and shook him again. �And you still insist you don�t know what he wanted from me?�
�I have no idea. It wasn�t my place to ask Mr. Carson.�
�But you had a damned good idea, didn�t you? You were afraid he�d got wind of your messing around with his wife and was hiring a detective to get evidence against her.�
�I didn�t think that at all. I don�t know who you�ve been talking to, but there was never anything like that between Mrs. Carson and me. She�s a perfect lady and you�ve no earthly right to bandy her name around like that.�
�Belle Carson? A perfect lady?� Shayne laughed sneeringly in an attempt to arouse the younger man to anger and loosen his tongue. �You spent last night with her while her husband was in Miami getting himself killed, didn�t you? Well,
�I certainly did not. I don�t know who told you...�
�She did,� Shayne lied flatly. �Why did she if it isn�t true? Was she giving you an alibi for last night?�
�I don�t believe she did. Why should I need an alibi?�
�Maybe you don�t,� said Shayne slowly, releasing him and taking a backward step. �Maybe Belle is the one who needs an alibi for last night.�
�Damn you and your nasty insinuations! I�m not going to listen to any more.� Barstow�s voice was high-pitched and shaky, but he turned away courageously and started down the corridor.
Shayne took two long strides after him, caught him by the shoulder and spun him about. He said calmly, �I�m sorry, Barstow, but I still need a little time and your sense of civic duty bothers me.�
He swung his right fist in a short arc that connected solidly with the teller�s blunt jaw, and the pudgy features went lax and he sank to the floor like a rag doll.
Shayne stood over him breathing heavily for a moment, then stooped and got a clean handkerchief from Barstow�s breast pocket which he stuffed into his mouth. Another handkerchief from his own hip pocket completed a crude but effective gag, and with Barstow�s belt he strapped the unconscious man�s ankles together and trussed his wrists securely to them.
Barstow�s eyes were closed, but his features were relaxed and he was breathing evenly when Shayne left him lying on the floor of the corridor and hurried out the back door.
He had no idea how long the teller would remain like that without being discovered, but he could only hope it would be long enough for him to reach Miami before the alarm went out and a roadblock was set up to cut him off from his destination.
The highway from Denham to ft. Pierce on the coast led through a thinly-populated area with few villages along the way and very little traffic at that time of night. Shayne pushed his car hard to reach Ft. Pierce before Harvey Barstow was discovered and an alarm could be got out to intercept him on that stretch of highway because he knew it would be worse than useless to stop along the way and attempt to switch cars.
But from Ft. Pierce to Miami was the main North-South highway patrolled by state and local police, and he knew it would be running a dangerous gauntlet to try and cover that stretch in his own car whose description must certainly have been broadcast during the afternoon.
Accordingly, he turned off on a side road approaching Ft. Pierce, followed a circuitous route into the northern outskirts of the city and stopped at the first parking lot he reached. With a parking ticket in his pocket, he breathed a sigh of relief as he hailed a taxi outside the parking lot and asked to be driven to a rental car agency. His luck was still holding. Behind the wheel of a rented car he had a fair chance of reaching Miami unmolested.
With his driver�s license and enough cash to lay on the line for a sizable deposit, it took him only ten minutes in the agency before driving away behind the wheel of a flashy new-model sedan. From there southward, he obeyed the speed laws and traffic regulations meticulously, and was relaxed enough in the driver�s seat to do some serious thinking for the first time since he had left the Carson house in Denham.
The flesh wound in his left bicep didn�t actually bother him, but the stinging of it was a constant reminder of the bullet that had broken up his tete-a-tete with Belle. He had a vivid memory of that one glimpse of the pale, hawklike features of his attacker (or, had he been Belle�s attacker?) and he knew very well he had never seen the man before.
Who was he, and how did he fit into the picture? Had he been stalking Belle outside her side porch, or had he been hiding there in wait for Shayne to return? In either case,
There were other questions bothering him as he drove steadily in the stream of night traffic toward Miami. Who, for instance, was the �Whitey� to whom Belle had referred? She had said that she thought at first that Whitey had �sent� him to Denham.
Somehow, the name took his thoughts back to that afternoon in Atlanta and the conversation with the Peases. He didn�t know why, but somehow there seemed to be some vague connection in his subconscious mind that took him back to that scene each time he thought about a man named �Whitey.� Yet, he was positive the name hadn�t been mentioned by either Mr. or Mrs. Pease. Nor by anyone else in Miami.
But there was something about a lumber magnate named Barnett who had been Richard Watson�s employer. A kidnapping that had made the headlines at the time. That statement had struck some chord in Shayne�s memory at the time, but the Peases had assured him it had nothing to do with the Watsons, and he had pushed the nagging recollection away from him.
Now he tried to get it back. Whitey and the kidnapping of a boy named Barnett some years ago! There was some connection between the name of Whitey and Barnett, but he couldn�t pull it out of the depths of his subconscious in which it was buried.
He made the drive to Miami without incident, and turned off the Boulevard at 79th Street to avoid city traffic. Pulling into a filling station at the intersection, he went into a telephone booth and dialled the number of the
�Mike! My God, man, where are you? Wait a minute. Don�t tell me,� the reporter went on hastily. �Latest flash here is that you gunned a banker�s widow in Denham, and slugged a cop there. Have you gone hog-wild crazy, Mike?�
�Not quite. Does the name Whitey mean anything to you, Tim?�
�Just... Whitey? Wait a minute. Yeh, but I don�t know what.�
�How about Barnett? A kidnapping in Atlanta a few years ago.�
�Sure. I did a local story on that. They arrested the guy here. Wait... another... minute, Mike. There was something on that recently. Whitey? Damned if I know, Mike.�
�Check on it,� said Shayne swiftly. �The whole story is in the morgue. Get everything and sit there, Tim, until I call back. It won�t be long.�
�Hey, wait! Just what in hell...?�
But Shayne hung up fast, hurried out and drove across the Bay and followed the shoreline south to the Park Plaza apartments.
There was a man at the desk tonight, and a different girl before the switchboard. Shayne held his breath as he stopped at the desk and asked casually, �Is Jeffery Walsh in?�
He could be wrong so easily. This was a wild shot in the dark, but it was the only thing he had to go on. If Walsh
But his hunch paid off. He exhaled a long satisfied breath as the clerk said briskly, �I believe Mr. Walsh is in. Would you like to phone up?� He nodded toward a house phone. �Number six ten.�
Shayne lifted the instrument and asked for 610. A man�s voice said, �Yes?� and Shayne said swiftly, blurring the words together, �Hi, Jeff. Glad you�re in. Be right up.�
He replaced the phone, nodded to the clerk and went back to a self-service elevator and up to the 6th floor. A lot depended on whether Barstow had been found yet, whether Shayne�s conversation with him had been transmitted to Painter, and how fast the detective chief would be to connect the name of Jeffery Walsh with the telephone call Carson had made to the Park Plaza the preceding evening. It was a cinch that Painter had a record of the call and would have made the same sort of routine check Shayne had tried that morning. And it was an obvious deduction, once he had the name of Walsh entering into the case, to reach the same conclusion Shayne had reached. It was all a matter of timing, and if the Beach cops had reached Walsh first there was sure to be a stakeout which Shayne would walk into as soon as he opened the elevator door on the 6th floor.
He opened the door and stepped out into a wide, well-lit, and empty hallway. An arrow on the wall in front of him pointed to the left with the numbers, 600�620.
He strode to the left and around a corner and rapped lightly on a door numbered 610.
It opened immediately and a tall, thin-faced man stared out at him. Walsh had brown hair that was getting thin on top, crafty blue eyes in a cadaverous face with flaring ears on each side. He was in shirtsleeves and without a tie, and clutched a highball in one hand. He squinted at the redhead and blocked the entrance, demanding, �You the guy just phoned? I don�t know you, do I?�
�I know you, Walsh.� Shayne pushed forward and the thin man gave way reluctantly. The apartment was small, with a couch that could be opened into a bed. Ashtrays overflowed with cigarette butts, and a whiskey bottle and pitcher of ice cubes stood on an end table by the couch.
�Who do you think you are, busting in here like this?� asked Walsh in a reedy, aggressive voice.
Shayne pulled the door shut and pushed his hat far back on his forehead to glower at the other detective. �Take a good look, Walsh, and then get ready to do a lot of talking fast... before the cops get here.�
Walsh took a good look and pursed his lips tightly, taking a backward step. �Mike Shayne! I remember meeting you once...�
�That�s right. That was before I knew you weren�t fit to be a scab on a decent private detective�s butt,� Shayne said harshly. �So that takes care of the preliminaries. We haven�t got much time, Walsh. A Mrs. Barstow from Denham hired you a few months ago to investigate a certain Belle Carson, married to the local banker. You went to Atlanta and sucked your client for all the money she could pony up, and then disappeared without making a report to her. I want to know what you found out about Belle Carson in Atlanta.�
�I don�t know what you�re talking about,� snarled Walsh. �If I did, I sure wouldn�t tell you...�
Shayne slapped him hard, knocking him back against the wall and spilling his highball over the front of him.
�I�m talking about murder, Walsh.�
�Murder?� He straightened himself with twitching lips, his blue eyes hotly venomous and avoiding Shayne�s. He set down the empty highball glass and began backing away toward the center of the room.
�Carson�s murder,� said Shayne flatly. �The man you were blackmailing.�
�Carson?� Walsh stopped backing away, stood flat-footed with his lower jaw drooping laxly. �I swear I don�t know what you mean,� he said in a tone that Shayne instinctively believed.
�You don�t deny you were blackmailing Carson?�
�Of course I deny it. What do you mean coming here and accusing me...?�
Shayne doubled his right fist and took a step forward. Walsh cringed and scrambled backward toward a table along the wall, reaching desperately behind him for the handle of a closed center drawer.
Shayne reached him before he got the drawer open, slammed a hand down on his shoulder and flung him spinning toward the couch where Walsh collapsed. Shayne strode after him and stood looking down at the frightened man with bleak eyes.
�I know you got something on Belle Carson in Atlanta and doublecrossed your client by not reporting back to her. I know you used the information to extort money from Carson. I know Carson came to Miami last night and telephoned you here from his hotel before he was shot to death. And I�m telling you, Goddamn it, that the cops are going to know all of that very shortly and be up here asking you the same questions I�m asking. I haven�t any time to waste, Walsh. Either tell me, or I�ll beat it out of you.�
Walsh lay back half on his side and whimpered, �I don�t know anything about any murder. The rest of it... all right, so maybe I did dig a few bucks out of a banker. Why not? It was worth it to him.�
�What was worth it?�
�To hush up the fact that his wife committed bigamy when she married him. He was a big-shot in Denham and couldn�t afford a scandal, and God knows I didn�t tap him hard. Just five C�s a month. Hell, he could afford it. You�d done the same, I betcha, if you ran onto an easy thing like that. Christ, if a man don�t feather his own nest in this lousy racket, who�ll do it for him?�
�So we�ve got that straight.� Contempt grated in Shayne�s voice. �Let�s get a couple of other things straight. How can you deny knowing Carson was murdered last night a couple of blocks from here? There�s a paper right there on the floor with his picture on the front page.� He pointed down at a crumpled newspaper.
�But it said... it said an unidentified body,� quavered Walsh, sitting up and drawing back to the other end of the couch with all the dignity he could muster.
�And that�s one angle the cops are going to third degree you on. You admit you saw his picture and knew he hadn�t been identified. Why didn�t you identify him?�
�But I didn�t
�You admit you were blackmailing him... talked to him on the telephone last evening?�
�Sure, I admit that. I got nothing to hide,� said Walsh virtuously. �But I didn�t know that was Carson�s picture in the paper. Don�t you get it? I never saw the man in my life. I didn�t want to see him. I wrote him a letter and said five C�s a month was all I wanted. So he mailed the checks to me. When he didn�t show up last night, sure I wondered, but I had no reason to connect him with a dead man. I figured he changed his mind or something.�
�What did he say on the phone?�
�That he was in town for the night and wanted to see me. It was early in the evening and I had a date. I said fine and how about a little later. He said fine that he was having dinner at the Chez Dumont a couple of blocks down the street and how would eleven o�clock be? So I made it back at eleven, passing up a hot piece, if you know what I mean, just to be here. And he didn�t show, damn it. Made me sore as hell.�
�So you knew he was eating at the Dumont and was headed here after dinner,� said Shayne coldly. �That�s all Peter Painter is going to want, Walsh. That, and the fact that you were blackmailing him. You�re the only man in Miami who could spot him on that street corner at eleven o�clock. Maybe you didn�t pull the trigger yourself,� said Shayne disgustedly. �I give you credit for setting up an alibi. But once Painter gets you in his back room, it won�t take him long to bust that down. Where�s your telephone?� He turned to look around the small disordered room and saw it on a stand near the door. He went to it swiftly and was lifting the receiver when Walsh ran to him and jiggled his arm, demanding frantically, �Who you gonna call? I swear to God, Shayne...�
�I�m calling Painter,� said Shayne shortly. �Who else? I�m out on a limb on this, and you�re my peace offering to Painter.� He grinned down wolfishly at the frightened man. �And it�s a pleasure to turn you in, Walsh. For once in my life, I feel real civic-minded.�
�Don�t do it,� protested Jeffery Walsh, dancing up and down with impatience and fright. �I swear I didn�t. If you�re out on a limb now, like you say, it won�t help you any to call in the cops. Not to give them me. Where�s my motive, for God�s sake? Suppose I do admit he was paying me five hundred a month? That makes me the last guy in the world to kill him. You ought to see that.�
Shayne replaced the receiver slowly. In a sense, Walsh was right. No use going off half-cocked and calling Painter in too soon. If Walsh couldn�t be made to fit for the killing, Shayne would still be very much on the spot.
He said gruffly, �The way I see it, and the way Painter will see it... Carson was tired of paying hush money to you and threatened to expose you. That�s what he came to town for. That�s a plenty good motive for you.�
�But it wasn�t like that at all,� said Walsh frantically. �In fact, he hinted over the phone that he wanted to make one big cash settlement with me instead of paying out money each month. I told him that about ten grand would fix me up just right, and that�s what he was going to talk over with me. Think
Shayne said, �No. I certainly don�t think that of you, Walsh. On the other hand, that�s only your story. You can�t prove a word of it with Carson dead. It�s a lot more logical to assume that he was cutting you off and threatening to turn you in for blackmail at the same time. Which gives us one hell of a motive for your gunning him. We�ve still got you marked as the only person in Miami who knew Carson would be leaving that particular restaurant a few minutes before eleven o�clock. I think you�ll look very good to Painter.�
He reached for the telephone again, but Walsh grabbed his arm and tugged at it frantically. �Wait a minute, Shayne. Don�t go off half-cocked. You just walked into this case this morning. Maybe there�re some things I know about that you don�t. Remember, I been working on the deal for several months.�
�Such as what?� growled Shayne, holding the phone lifted and his finger hovering over the dial.
�Such as Whitey Buford and a kidnapping rap. But you haven�t even heard of Whitey.� There was a smirk of triumph in Walsh�s voice and Shayne hesitated, studying his face with bleak eyes. Then he shrugged and began dialling a number.
Walsh tried to pull him away from the phone, exclaiming angrily, �Damn it, Shayne. I�m trying to tell you...�
Shayne tucked the receiver between his chin and shoulder, released his left hand to give Walsh a backhanded slap that sent him reeling. He kept on dialling the number he wanted, growling, �Keep out of this until I ask you to come in.�
A dulcet voice over the telephone said, �Miami
A moment later he had Timothy Rourke on the wire, and the reporter told him excitedly:
�I don�t know how this fits, but one Whitey Buford, convicted of kidnapping the Barnett boy in Atlanta a few years back, escaped from the Georgia state pen last week, killing a guard while he made his getaway. That mean anything to you, Mike?�
�It might. Is he still loose?�
�Nothing on him yet. Here�s the complete story, Mike. I told you I covered it locally and I�ve checked back on the files. Buford was arested by the FBI in Miami on Labor Day, nineteen fifty-four, on an anonymous tip. He had the Barnett boy with him, unharmed, and admitted the kidnapping. Hell, he had to. They caught him with his pants down. But he insisted he hadn�t got any ransom, and the family swore they�d paid off to the tune of fifty grand. But he didn�t have a penny of it when arrested, and they always figured he�d stashed it here in Miami some place just before the arrest. That hurt him at the trial because it looked like he was still holding the boy after the pay-off. So he drew life.
�Since his escape from the penitentiary last week, there�s been an intensive alert for him in Miami on account of the cops figure he headed back here to dig up the fifty grand ransom money. Any of that do you any good, Mike?� Tim Rourke�s voice was anxious as he ended.
Shayne said slowly, �It might, Tim. Got a description of Buford?�
�Yeh. There was a spread in the
�Let me guess,� said Shayne. �Long nose and sharp, thin features. About forty. Four years in jail would pale him up.�
Rourke said, �That�s as good as I could do sitting here looking at the picture. You got a line on him?�
Shayne said, �The bastard took a shot at me a few hours ago. Keep on forgetting I called you, Tim.�
He hung up and turned slowly to Walsh who was cowering back against the sofa and who had listened avidly to his end of the conversation. He said, �You were about to tell me about Whitey Buford and a kidnapping rap in nineteen fifty-four. Go ahead and tell me.�
Walsh was breathing hard. �I guess you got most of the same dope. I saw it in the paper last week where Whitey had broken jail and was maybe headed here where they always thought he�d hid the ransom money. One thing, though, I betcha don�t know. It never did come out in the newspapers and I dug it up in Atlanta when I was checking Belle out with the local cops.�
Shayne said, �What? It better be good if I don�t call Painter to pick you up.� He still held his left hand over the telephone.
�Belle�s husband was the pay-off man,� said Walsh thinly. �Not a word of that ever came out in the papers or at the trial, but when he drove away from his house that night before Labor Day he had fifty thousand dollars in small unmarked bills in the suitcase he carried. The kidnapper had designated him as delivery boy, and he was a trusted employee of the Barnett Lumber Company. The cops always figured Buford killed him here in Miami after he made the pay-off, but there wasn�t any proof of that at all.�
�Did Belle know it?� Shayne demanded savagely.
�No one knows. She denied any knowledge of it at the time. Claimed Richard Watson never told her a damned word. That he just up and disappeared for no reason at all.
�But who knows the truth about any of it?� Walsh went on eagerly. �Maybe Belle did know. Maybe Watson never did deliver the ransom like Buford claimed, and maybe he split it with Belle before leaving her like he did. Who knows? I heard you say on the phone that somebody took a shot at you a few hours ago. Whitey Buford? Did Belle Carson tell her second husband about Whitey after he escaped, and was Whitey out gunning for Belle and Carson because he figured she�d kept her share of the money he feels is rightfully his? There�s a better motive for Whitey gunning Carson last night than you can possibly build up for me.�
�The only difference is,� said Shayne slowly, �that there�s nothing to indicate Carson even knew who Whitey was or had any contact with him. But we do have you, Walsh.� He lifted the telephone again and started dialling. �I think Painter will be satisfied to nail you to the cross.�
Walsh sucked in his breath sharply and lunged at Shayne, his eyes wild with fear and anger.
The redhead again tucked the receiver between chin and shoulder, and this time he met the other private detective�s rush with a solid, jolting left to the point of the jaw.
Walsh went down in a heap on the floor in front of him, and Shayne stepped around him and calmly completed dialling the number he had started.
He said, �Homicide, please. Peter Painter, if he�s available.�
He listened a moment and said rapidly, �All right, Sergeant. Park Plaza Apartments here on the Beach. Number six-ten. A man named Jeffery Walsh is the man whom Walter Carson telephoned from his hotel room shortly before he was murdered last night. Walsh was blackmailing him, and had a date to meet him at eleven o�clock. If you get some men here fast, you�ll find Walsh passed out in his apartment waiting for you. Six-ten, the Park Plaza.�
He replaced the receiver, shutting off the squawking voice of the homicide sergeant demanding to know the name of the person who was calling.
He whirled and walked out, leaving the unconscious body of Jeffery Walsh on the floor behind him, went down the elevator and out through the lobby to his rented car parked in front.
He got in it and was pulling away from the curb when he heard the keening of a siren coming up fast behind him, and he knew that he could very well leave Jeffery Walsh to the tender mercies of Peter Painter.
Even though he was driving a rented car which Shayne trusted they didn�t know about yet, he realized he couldn�t afford to hang around Miami Beach very long if he expected to stay out of jail and wind up the case. But he did have one more stop to make on this side of Biscayne Bay, and the faster he wound up his business here, the better off he�d be.
Accordingly, he drove sedately away from the Park Plaza, made two turns in as many blocks and pulled into the curb less than half a block from the Chez Dumont restaurant.
He got out and walked to the marquee where he turned in, finding the small foyer empty of waiting diners at this late hour of the evening. The dining room beyond the foyer was only half-occupied, and there was no velvet rope guarding the entrance. But the maitre d� was there, and he smiled welcomingly at the tall redhead and inquired suavely, �One... for dinner?�
Michael Shayne shook his head and said, �I�m after some information.� He opened his right hand to show the maitre d� a folded ten-spot. �About a customer of yours who got himself killed last night after dining here.�
�A customer of
�A man named Carson,� said Shayne. �It happened right down the street about eleven o�clock last night as he was leaving here. You must have read about it in the papers.�
�That one?� The maitre d� spread out his hands. �No name was given for the body, nor was it said he had dined here.�
�He�s been identified as Walter Carson,� Shayne told him. �From out-of-town. He had a nine o�clock reservation last night. I want to know whether he ate alone, whether anyone spoke to him while he was at dinner, whether he made any telephone calls from here during that time.�
�Mr. Carson? But yes.� The maitre d� turned from Shayne to a small stand on his left and thumbed back through a list of reservations for the previous night. �From Denham, no? The dinner reservation was requested by mail in advance. For nine o�clock. Table number thirty-eight. You wish to consult the waiter who served him?�
Shayne said, �Please.�
He stepped back into the foyer and lit a cigarette and waited a few minutes until the maitre d� reappeared with a placid-faced, middle-aged man who walked as though his feet hurt him.
Yes, he remembered the customer at table thirty-eight who had sat alone for almost two hours and left a tip amounting to exactly fifteen percent of the dinner check. No, he hadn�t recognized him from the picture of the corpse in the morning paper, although he now readily agreed it might well have been the lone customer who had ordered one dry martini and insisted on telling a stale joke about the mixing of martinis, had gone on to sweetbreads
No, he had seen no one approach the customer at number thirty-eight during dinner or speak to him, and he was not aware of any telephone calls being made or received during the two hours Mr. Carson had been at his table. Of course, he could not state with certainty that the diner had not left his table to make a phone call during that time. Mr. Shayne would have to understand that Chez Dumont was understaffed and the waiters were overworked and had to take care of many customers during a two-hour period.
Shayne did gravely accept that fact, and because he suspected that none of his original ten dollars would find its way from the maitre d� to the waiter, he transferred another five from his wallet to the not-reluctant hand in front of him, and hurried from the restaurant not more than ten minutes after he had entered it.
He reached his rented car without incident, pulled away toward the County Causeway, taking care to avoid a route that would take him past the Park Plaza Apartments.
Once across the Bay without being stopped, Shayne sighed with relief and drove south on the Boulevard to Third Street, where he turned right for a block and a half.
He parked in front of an inconspicuous bar on the right-hand side of the street, and went in.
It was dimly lighted and tobacco smoke hung heavy in the long narrow room, and there were three men on stools at the far end of the bar clutching shot-glasses of whiskey in front of them. All three were young and sharply-dressed, with deceptively placid faces which turned to survey Shayne when he entered as though all three were activated by some sort of remote control.
There were half a dozen tables in the rear beyond the bar, and one of them was occupied by five men playing cards. They all wore hats pushed back from their foreheads, and none of them looked at Shayne or spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard as they dealt cards around the table and picked up their hands to study them.
The bartender had a thin face and not much chin, and a yellow, jaundiced complexion. He was hunched on a stool behind the bar, and he got down slowly as the detective stopped at the front of the bar, made a vague swipe at the mahogany in front of the redhead with a dirty bar-rag and husked, �What�ll it be, Mister?�
Shayne rested both forearms on the bar and said, �Cognac. With ice water for a chaser.� He looked at the array of bottles behind the bartender and added, �That Hennessy will be fine.�
He waited until a shot-glass was filled in front of him, and a glass with one cube of ice and filled with water stood beside it. Then he said, �Where�s Joe tonight?�
�I dunno. You a friend of his?� The bartender picked a toothpick off the bar and chewed on it ruminatively.
�I�m Mike Shayne.� The redhead lifted the shot-glass and drank half its contents, took a sip of ice water. �Tell Joe I was in. Tell him I left a message for Whitey Buford.�
The bartender had stiffened when Shayne mentioned his own name. Now he licked his lips and darted a quick glance down the bar toward the trio of young punks who were watching and listening. He said, �I dunno if I can reach Joe.�
Shayne said, �You�d better. And fast.� He glanced at his watch. �Tell him this. There�ll be a message waiting for Whitey Buford from Belle Carson at Conway�s Grill in exactly half an hour. Eleven-twenty. Tell Joe Mike Shayne said so. And tell Joe that if Whitey isn�t there to pick it up at exactly eleven-twenty, I�ll be in to have a talk with Joe tomorrow.�
He tossed off the rest of his drink, turned and walked out of the bar without paying for it. The bartender did not protest.
Shayne turned north at the next corner and drove a dozen or more blocks before he turned right again. He was in one of the older residential sections of Miami, where the houses were more than a quarter century old, well-spaced with wide lawns and the size that houses used to be built before inflation had its way.
Mostly, now, these two and three-story structures that had been an aid to gracious living in the early part of the century had been cut up into efficiency apartments or turned into rooming houses, but here and there among them a mansion had survived as an entity, and it was in front of one of these that Shayne drew up next.
There was a long concrete walk back between double rows of carefully trimmed hibiscus bushes, steps leading up to a white-pillared front porch and double doors with a nightlight burning above them.
Shayne pressed the button and waited a long time before the door opened and a man peered out wearing a black velvet smoking jacket, well-pressed slacks and leather slippers. He had square-cut, craggy features and leonine gray hair, and twinkling blue eyes which surveyed his late visitor with a look of amused condescension.
He gestured with a curved meerschaum pipe and drawled, �Michael Shayne, by all that�s holy. The dean of private eyes. Come in, Mr. Shayne.�
�Said the spider to the fly.� Shayne�s voice was hard and his gray eyes were bleak as he stepped into a wide hallway leading back the length of the house and a full two stories high. �This is business, Melrose. Not a social call, I warn you.�
�Since you weren�t invited to my house socially, Mr. Shayne, you don�t surprise me at all.� His host�s voice was deep and pleasant. He closed the front door behind Shayne and motioned toward fringed porti�res on the right. �However, I trust you will join me in a nightcap in my study.�
Shayne preceded him into the large square room. A fire of driftwood was crackling in a fireplace flanked by bookcases containing massive legal volumes, and there was a wide, bare desk at the right with a swivel chair behind it. There were also comfortable, leather-upholstered chairs on each side of the fireplace, and on the left was a well-stocked bar complete with its own ice-maker and gleaming glasses of crystal.
�I was just indulging in a nightcap, Shayne,� said Melrose�s voice behind him. �I hope you�ll join me. There�s some rather fine brandy here.� He circled behind Shayne to the bar, produced a dusty bottle that had been distilled in Napoleon�s time. �Straight, isn�t it? With ice water on the side? And no fancy snifter to get in the way of real drinking pleasure?�
Shayne stood in the middle of the floor and said, �Hold it, Melrose. I�m particular whom I drink with.�
Morton Melrose paused with an old-fashioned glass in his left hand and the bottle of ancient brandy poised in his right. He lifted iron-gray eyebrows and said softly, �So, Mr. Shayne?�
�So,� said Shayne harshly. �I�m just a messenger boy tonight, Melrose. Don�t pour that drink while you�re under illusions.�
�I seldom am,� said Attorney Melrose complacently. �Under illusions, I mean.� He tilted the bottle and let amber liquid flow into the glass. �You have a message for me?�
�For a man named Whitey Buford,� said Shayne. He extended his left hand to accept the glass, lifted it to pleasurably sniff the bouquet arising from the aged brandy.
Melrose said, �I don�t believe I know the gentleman.� He moved from behind the bar to the fireplace and one of the comfortable chairs there with a highball glass and an ashtray beside it.
Shayne said, �Perhaps not. On the other hand, I suggest there�s a possibility you may be able to contact him. After all,� he went on smoothly, �Buford is an escaped con suspected of having fifty thousand bucks stashed away in Miami. Who other than Morton Melrose is likely to have a pipeline to him?�
�Who, indeed?� agreed Melrose, his blue eyes glinting with an emotion that might have been anger or might have been amusement.
Shayne said harshly: �There�ll be a message waiting for Whitey Buford from Belle Carson at Conway�s Grill in exactly...� He glanced at his watch, �... eighteen minutes from now. Eleven-twenty. That�s all.� He lifted his glass and said, �Here�s how.�
Melrose lifted his own glass and sipped from it as Shayne downed the cognac. He said softly, �If you care to elucidate...?�
Shayne said, �I don�t.� He set the empty glass down on Melrose�s desk, turned and walked out of the study.
The attorney did not move from the fireplace to accompany him. Shayne let himself out into the cool of the night, went down the walk briskly to his car and drove away.
He turned south again and crossed Flagler Street, turned right on the north bank of the Miami River and drove westward for more than a dozen blocks into a cluttered section of riverfront docks and boathouses. He stopped in front of a rickety three-story frame structure on a corner that backed up to the river with second and third-floor balconies overlooking the sluggish stream with a wooden dock at the rear and small boats moored to it.
Light showed from about half of the double row of upper windows in front, and there was a bar-room and grill on the ground-floor at the left of the entrance. A jukebox was playing loudly in the bar-room, and Shayne could see the bar was crowded as he hesitated just inside the front door for a moment. On his right was a closed door marked PRIVATE.
It opened soundlessly as he stood there and a fat woman looked out at him. She was middle-aged and her hair was dyed raven black, with straight bangs across the forehead of her moonlike face. She wore a sequined black dress that was belted in the middle as tightly as her barrel-like torso would allow, and she poised daintily on preposterously tiny feet encased in black velvet slippers with rhinestone buckles. There was a prominent dimple in each bulging cheek and in the center of her chin as she smiled coquettishly and exclaimed, �Shamus Shayne his own-self! It�s been a long time since you came visiting to see Sadie.� She stood aside and motioned him into the room with a bare arm the thickness of Shayne�s calf. Her eyes were steely-blue and didn�t reflect the smile on her face.
Shayne stepped past her into a small, unpleasantly hot room, cluttered with Victorian furniture and knick-knack shelves. A round, marble-topped table in the center of the room held a whiskey bottle and two glasses. Two straight-backed horsehair chairs were drawn up at opposite sides of the table and one of them was occupied by a small, thin-faced Mulatto who regarded Shayne with unblinking dislike through beady black eyes.
Fat Sadie closed the door firmly behind Shayne and waddled to the other chair where she sat down. She said, �Pull up a chair, Redhead, and you can drink out of the bottle.�
Shayne shook his head and said, �I�ll take a rain-check, Fat Sadie. If you�ve got a guy named Whitey Buford stashed away upstairs, better get rid of him. He�s dynamite.�
�Now you know Sadie�d never rent a room to anybody that Mike Shayne says is dynamite. Would I, Quirk?� She appealed coyly to the Mulatto across from her.
He licked his tongue out to move the tip of it carefully between dry lips. His beady eyes were fixed on the detective�s face with the reptilian animosity of a Gila Monster. He settled back slightly in his chair and slid a coffee-colored hand into the right-hand pocket of his sharply-creased slacks. He asked in a silky voice, �You want I should cut him for you, Fat Sadie?�
�You sit where you are, Quirk. Shamus Shayne and I are old buddies. He knows I run a nice quiet place here.�
Shayne said flatly, �I know that any punk on the lam heads for Fat Sadie�s when he�s close to Miami and looking for a cheap hideout. I�m telling you to pass the word around.� He looked at his watch. �Whitey Buford has got just twelve minutes to get to Conway�s Grill and pick up a message from Belle Carson. If he isn�t there at eleven-twenty, there�s going to be hell to pay in Miami.�
Fat Sadie said petulantly, �But suppose I don�t know Whitey Buford... and I don�t. You can�t blame me...�
Shayne said, �It�ll be your tough luck if he isn�t there to pick up the message at eleven-twenty.� He started to turn away from the table, but the coffee-colored man opposite Sadie came to his feet and moved toward him, saying pleasantly, �I just know I got to cut him up some, Fat Sadie.� His hand came out of his pocket and there was a clicking sound and the light from an overhead chandelier glinted on six inches of steel.
Sadie frowned and the dimples disappeared in her cheeks. She said sternly, �Now I told you. Quirk...�
But his breath came in sibilantly and he moved with cat-like swiftness to get between Shayne and the door.
The redhead stood flat-footed, not looking at him or the knife in his hand, but telling Sadie, �If you can�t handle him I�ll have to do it for you?�
�You an� who else, Mister Redhead?� hissed the Mulatto, crouching and bending forward while the glittering blade moved in an intricate pattern in front of him.
Still without looking in his direction, leaning forward at the waist to stare down into Sadie�s eyes, Shayne threw his body sideways and slanting downward beneath the dancing blade. His shoulder struck the Mulatto�s knees and they went to the floor together with both his hands gripping the wrist and elbow of the arm that held the knife, and twisting hard.
There was a sharp snapping sound and a shriek of pain and the knife clattered to the floor and Shayne swung to his feet leaving the Mulatto cringing on the floor with a broken forearm.
He told Fat Sadie coldly, �It�s only ten minutes now. Conway�s Grill. A message from Belle Carson.�
He stepped contemptuously over the writhing body on the floor, opened the door and went out into the hall and then out into the Miami night.
Shayne stopped at the first lighted drugstore he came to, and called Timothy Rourke at the
�Important?� Rourke asked tersely.
�There�s a headline building up. Six minutes, Tim. And bring that clipping with Buford�s picture.�
Rourke said, �Will do,� and broke the connection.
Conway�s Grill was a short distance west on the Tamiami Trail. Shayne had chosen it for a rendezvous because it put up a respectable front but was frequented by gamblers and other members of the sporting fraternity and was well-known up and down the East Coast as a place where close-mouthed men foregathered to discuss private affairs without much fear of police surveillance.
It was a rambling stucco structure with a large, well-lighted barroom in front, a parking area in the rear with three unobtrusive entrances leading into small dining rooms partitioned off from the front bar where excellent food was served for high prices by tight-lipped waiters.
Shayne found a parking slot just beyond the neon-lighted entrance and pulled in. His watch told him that four and a half minutes had elapsed since he made the phone call to Rourke, and it still lacked four minutes of eleven-twenty.
He relaxed behind the wheel momentarily, and leaving the motor running, lit a cigarette, coldly calm now that the chips were down and a face-to-face meeting with the escaped convict was imminent.
For he had little doubt that Whitey Buford would keep the appointment. One of Shayne�s three contacts would almost certainly know how to contact Buford if he had returned to the city from Denham (as Shayne was certain he would have done after firing that one shot at the Carson house), and if Buford was playing the sort of game Shayne suspected he wouldn�t miss the opportunity to pick up a message from Belle Carson.
Getting out of the car with the pistol he had wrested from Harvey Barstow sagging in his pocket, Shayne had no compunction about what he planned to do. Buford was a kidnapper and a killer. Right now, he was as dangerous as a mad dog running through the streets of the city, and he deserved no better break than a mad dog.
A taxi pulled up fast with protesting tires in front of Conway�s, and Shayne saw the tall, unkempt figure of Tim Rourke hop out and thrust a bill at the driver. He slowed and moved against the side of the building as Rourke crossed the lighted area of the sidewalk, and said quietly, �Right here, Tim.�
Rourke turned and slowed his plunging stride, shoved his hat back on his forehead. His deepset, black eyes glittered with excitement as he exclaimed, �All hell is popping on the Beach, Mike. Painter is out for your blood this time and every cop on both sides of the bay is alerted to pull you in. What in hell have you been up to?�
�Staying two jumps ahead of Painter all day,� Shayne said drily. He held out his hand. �Got the clipping with you?�
Rourke unfolded a sizable piece of newsprint and put it in his hand. Shayne glanced at the picture and nodded. The thin, predatory face looking at him was a younger version of the man whom he had glimpsed in the moonlight in Denham a few hours earlier. He folded it with his left-hand and thrust it into his pocket. �Get back off the sidewalk between those two parked cars, Tim. I want you to witness this and be able to swear it was self-defense, but there�s no point in your stopping a stray bullet.�
�Tell me what in hell...�
�Afterward,� Shayne said quietly. Another taxi was drawing close, slowing to stop in front of the Grill. He put his right hand deep into his coat pocket and gripped the butt of Harvey Banker�s Special. �I�ve got a hunch this is it. Get away from me, Tim.�
The tone of his voice sent Rourke across the sidewalk to sidle between two cars parked at the curb.
The taxi passenger got out and paid the driver, turned to walk into the lighted area while he tugged the snap brim of a black felt lower on his forehead.
When he was two paces from the door Shayne straightened from his lounging position against the wall and said loudly, �This is it, Whitey. Here�s the message from Belle Carson.� He kept his hand in his pocket, but the short-barrel of the gun did not push out the fabric.
Whitey Buford stopped in mid-stride. He was less than ten feet from the redhead. He stood like a statue for a moment before his right hand darted inside his coat toward a shoulder holster.
Shayne waited until his gun was clear before shooting him in the mid-section. Buford pressed the trigger of his own gun as he fell forward, but the bullet went wild.
Shayne leaped forward and was bending over him before he hit the concrete. He snatched up Buford�s gun and dropped it in with his, hoisted the bleeding man onto his shoulder and turned away fast as the door of Conway�s Grill opened cautiously and a man peered out into the night.
Shayne had chosen the spot well for his purpose, because no one from Conway�s came charging out to investigate the two shots just outside, no one challenged him as he trotted back to his rented car carrying Buford on his shoulder and jerked out to Rourke, �You drive, Tim. We�ll ride in the back and I�ll try to keep this guy alive to give him to Painter.�
He jerked open the back door and piled Buford onto the seat while Rourke ran around to the front and got in, gunned the motor and pulled away fast without asking questions.
Kneeling on the floor in the rear, Shayne stretched Buford�s limp body out on the back seat, spread his coat open and jerked blood-soaked shirt-tail and undershirt out from under his belt to examine the wound inflicted by his .32 caliber bullet. There was a small hole just left of center leading into the convict�s intestines, and blood was oozing out of it.
Whitey Buford opened his eyes and wet his lips and peered up at the redhead as he pressed a folded handkerchief against the wound, pulled the undershirt down tight over it to hold it in place.
�You�re Shayne,� he said thinly. �The quick-gun Shamus� Watson figured to hire when he heard I�d busted out and was headed this way.�
Michael Shayne rocked back on his heels and looked down at the escaped felon grimly. �You�ve got a bullet in your guts, Buford. You may live to get the chair and you may not. Want to talk about it?�
�What�s there to talk about? You had all the advantage... waiting for me like that.�
�You had all the advantage in Denham tonight,� Shayne reminded him coldly. �Who were you gunning for... Belle or me?�
�You, goddamn it. Why�d I shoot Belle?�
Shayne said, �That�s one of the things I wondered. You said Watson a moment ago. Didn�t you mean Carson?�
�The sonofabitch was named Watson when he lammed with that fifty grand and left me holding the bag. After setting up the whole caper and talking me into grabbing the kid.�
�Watson?� Shayne repeated the name wonderingly, and then suddenly it hit him and he wondered why he hadn�t realized the truth sooner.
Of course, Banker Carson of Denham was merely the reincarnation of Richard Watson of Atlanta, head bookkeeper for the Barnett Lumber Company, the quiet man who had disappeared so completely after driving away from home at dusk with a shabby suitcase in his car.
It all added up, Shayne realized. The appearance of Walter Carson in Denham a short time later with enough money to buy out the controlling interest in a small country bank.
The ransom money for the Barnett boy which must have been in that suitcase Mr. and Mrs. Pease saw him carry out the back-door.
That was why none of the money had ever been recovered � why Buford had denied receiving any of it. He hadn�t ditched it in Miami, and he hadn�t broken jail and headed for Miami to recover it. Instead, he had broken jail burning with a desire for revenge on the man who had double-crossed him and sent him to jail years before.
Somehow, through underworld connections while inside the penitentiary, he must have learned that Watson was posing as a respectable banker in Denham � and somehow Watson must have been warned that he knew.
So, Belle hadn�t committed bigamy after all. She had merely waited for her legal husband to establish his new identity, followed him to Denham where they had played out the farce of a whirlwind courtship before remarrying.
Whitey Buford groaned and closed his eyes. Little bubbles of spittle formed on his lips. Shayne leaned close and demanded harshly, �Why did you kill Watson last night? To prevent him from coming to me with his proposition for me to hunt you down and kill you before you could expose him?�
Buford�s eyes stayed shut. His lips parted slightly and Shayne had to lean very close to hear the wheezing whisper, �Didn�t kill him. Wanted... my share. Was gonna... collect...� The voice ended in a sibilant sigh. Shayne bared his wrist and found the pulse. It was slow and somewhat weak, but quite regular.
He lifted his head and looked out the window, saw they were on the Causeway rushing toward Miami Beach at about seventy miles an hour.
Hunched over the steering wheel of the rented car, Rourke saw his head lift in the rear-view mirror, and called over his shoulder cheerfully, �He die on you, Mike?�
�I think he�ll live for the electric chair if we get him to a doctor fast.� Shayne got out a cigarette and slumped down on the floor with his back against one door and his feet against the other.
�Sure you want to go in to Painter, Mike?� Rourke�s voice was sharp with anxiety. �The way we�ve been getting it, he�s got enough on you to put you behind bars for the rest of your life.�
�I want to deliver Whitey Buford to him alive,� said Shayne inflexibly. �And I�ve already given him Carson�s murderer, so he shouldn�t be too tough to handle.�
�Buford didn�t do that job?� Rourke asked incredulously, slowing to a sedate fifty as they neared the Beach end of the Causeway. �I just heard him identifying Carson as Watson. Know what that means, Mike? When I checked into Buford and the kidnapping story this evening, I ran across the name of Watson. Grapevine had it at the time that he was the pay-off man for the ransom money. The money that never was found. If Watson did disappear with the fifty grand and changed his name to Carson...�
�That�s what he did, Tim. And his wife waited almost a year before following him to Denham and remarrying him under his new identity. I don�t know how she traced him, but the poor devil must have felt like he�d gone from the frying pan into the fire when she traced him to Denham. Pull up close to the side entrance where Doc Crandal has his emergency room,� he directed as they neared the Miami Beach police station. �I don�t want to start arguing with Petey or any of the boys until the doc gets to work on him.�
Rourke pulled into the parking area in rear of the station and passed a dozen police cars to head in toward a door with a nightlight burning over it.
He switched off his motor and headlights, leaped out to help Shayne drag Buford�s unconscious body off the back seat and get it draped over Shayne�s shoulder. Then he hurried ahead of him to open the door, announcing loudly, �Got a customer for you, Doc.�
The small room was brilliantly lit and antiseptically white, equipped with an operating table and emergency equipment, and Doctor Crandal was in an easy chair reading a paper-backed mystery with a bottle of beer close to his right hand.
He got up and yawned when Shayne came through the door and stretched Buford out on the table. �So it�s you, Mike?� he said in a pleased tone. �Mr. Painter will be very happy to know you�re here. And if that�s a stiff you�re stretching out on my table...�
�He isn�t stiff... yet.� Shayne jerked the undershirt up and displayed the wound. �Just a little thirty-two slug, Doc.�
�U-m-m, yes. But you missed his belly-button, Mike,� he said in a tone of gentle reproof.
Shayne said apologetically, �It was a lousy short-barreled Banker�s Special.� He stepped back toward a door leading into the police station and Timothy Rourke joined him as the doctor examined the wounded man.
�He should be okay,� he said after a time, glancing at the two men with mild curiosity. �I�ll have to tell Painter you�re here, Mike.�
Shayne smiled and said, �I�d rather have the pleasure of telling him myself, Doc. Coming, Tim?�
�God yes. This, I must see.�
Shayne opened the door and they stepped into an empty corridor leading back from the charge room. They turned to the right and went side by side past two closed doors toward an open door on the left that both men knew led into Painter�s private office.
As they approached it, they heard a gruff voice explaining apologetically, �But Shayne had beat it before we got there, Chief. This punk claims he beat him up for no reason at all.�
�That�s one more charge to throw at him.� Painter�s voice was gleeful. �I�ll bet any of you ten bucks that he�s fifty miles from here right now... running like a hound dog with his tail between his legs.�
There were guffaws of pleased laughter from inside the room, and Shayne paused to take out his billfold and extract a ten-dollar bill. Holding it outstretched, he walked into the office and said, �I�ll take that ten dollar bet, Painter.�
Though it was a large corner office it seemed crowded by the six men who gaped at Shayne as he walked through the door. Harvey Barstow was slumped in a chair at the rear; his hair unkempt and a bruise on his sullenly boyish face, and close to him stood a uniformed member of the Denham police force. Chief Painter sat behind the big desk in the center of the room, and on his left were ranged two plainclothes detectives supporting Jeffery Walsh between them.
Painter arose slowly from his swivel chair as Shayne walked up to the desk and laid the bill in front of him. His black eyes glittered with animosity and his slender frame quivered as he said thinly:
�I gave you credit for more sense, Shayne. My God, do you realize the list of charges I�ve got piled up against you since last night?�
�I�ve got a vague idea,� Shayne told him unsmilingly. He put the tip of his forefinger on the bill and pushed it toward Painter. �Pay off on your bet, damn it.�
�Arrest him. Logan,� Painter grated at one of the detectives holding onto Walsh�s arm. �Take him out of here, and by God we�ll see he wishes he had taken it on the run.�
Shayne shook his head reprovingly at the detective who released Walsh�s left arm and started toward him. He said, �Don�t make your boss out a bigger fool than he really is, Logan. If you arrest me now Painter never will solve the Carson killing.�
�Hah!� snorted Painter happily. �Despite all the run-around you tried to give me, Shayne,
Shayne said, �Then you�ll appreciate the fact that Doc Crandal is working on Buford right now to see if he can keep him alive.�
�Doc... Crandal?� Painter�s voice thinned still more and the thumb-nail that was caressing his tiny black mustache became suddenly still.
�In his emergency room.� Shayne jerked his thumb casually over his shoulder. �Tim Rourke and I just brought Buford in for you. I had to shoot him in the guts when he pulled this gun on me, but the doc thinks he�ll make it.� He reached in his coat pocket as he spoke and lifted out the .38 automatic that he had taken from Buford�s lax fingers in front of Conway�s Grill.
�What�s he talking about, Rourke?� demanded Painter fiercely of the reporter who had stopped beside Shayne. In a stricken tone, he added, �There must be some mistake. He can�t mean Whitey Buford. The convict that escaped from the Georgia penitentiary a few days ago. The one that kidnapped the Barnett boy...� His voice trailed off and Rourke shrugged and said:
�I can�t identify him positively, but he sure as hell looks like the picture that was in yesterday�s
�I don�t see...� sputtered Painter. �How in the living hell, Shayne? Well, so you were lucky and reached Buford through your underworld connections. But don�t get the idea that takes you off the hook,� he went on shrilly. �I don�t care how many ex-cons you bring in dead or alive. Don�t forget I had the Carson case solved before you made your grandstand play... in spite of all the obstructions you placed in my path. Do you deny assaulting Mr. Barstow in Denham tonight?�
Shayne glanced at the bank teller�s twitching face and said mildly, �I don�t deny socking him in the bank after he pulled a gun on me and threatened to have me pinched. Hell, Petey,� he went on earnestly, �for that you should give me a medal. How would you ever have got a line on my pal, Walsh, here...� He nodded sardonically at the private detective who was still being half-supported by one of the officers, �... if I�d stuck around Denham to let the cops pick me up? Who in hell do you think phoned in the pick-up on Walsh?�
�We know you made that phone call,� conceded Painter. �After slapping him around and knocking him out cold. And he�s admitted blackmailing Carson by keeping quiet about his wife having committed bigamy, but that�s no by God reason for you...�
�She didn�t,� Shayne interrupted dispassionately.
�Who didn�t? What?� shrilled Painter.
�Belle Carson didn�t commit bigamy when she married Carson.� Shayne lowered one hip to a corner of Painter�s desk and got out a cigarette which he shoved between his lips. �Walsh is not only a stinking blackmailer,� he went on disgustedly, �but he�s also a lousy detective to boot.�
�I swear she never got a divorce from Richard Watson,� Walsh said angrily, straightening himself and glaring at Shayne. �I checked her out all the way. It was bigamy, all right, and I don�t think it�s legally blackmail if there�s a gentleman�s agreement to keep quiet about a thing like that. I want to consult a lawyer,� he ended on a whining note.
�If she didn�t commit bigamy, why did her husband make a monthly pay-off to Walsh?� demanded Painter.
�Because he couldn�t afford to have anyone dig deeper into his past and what went on back in Atlanta. When you said awhile ago that you could prove Whitey Buford killed Carson, what were you basing it on? What connection do you see between Buford and Carson?�
�Carson�s wife is the connection. She was formerly married to a man named Richard Watson in Atlanta... who was the pay-off man in a kidnapping engineered by Buford. Buford has always sworn he never got the money, and I figure Belle Carson was afraid he would be coming after her for revenge when she heard he�d broken jail. So she told her husband the whole story, and he came to Miami intending to see you and hire you to take care of Buford for him. But I also figure he was fool enough to contact Buford last night and threaten him with your gun. How else would Buford have known where to find him at eleven o�clock?�
�I don�t think Buford did know. I doubt that he would have killed Carson if he had known. Because he wanted that fifty-thousand Carson had held out on him years ago.�
�You mean Watson, don�t you?�
�Haven�t you got the set-up yet?� asked Shayne impatiently. �I told you Belle didn�t commit bigamy. Carson
�Who did, then?� asked Painter uncertainly.
�I thought you�d like Walsh for it. He had both motive and opportunity. He admitted to me that Carson phoned him last evening and said he was having dinner at Chez Dumont and would be leaving at eleven to walk the few blocks to Walsh�s place.�
�He�s twisting it all up,� whined Walsh. �Sure he had a date to come to my apartment, but it was to talk over a big pay-off.
�That�s what you say,� snarled Painter. �How do we know he wasn�t tired of playing blackmail and had threatened to expose you if you didn�t lay off? After all, you are the only man in Miami who could place him with certainty at that place and that time. He was killed with a thirty-two. What caliber gun you got a license for? And where is it?�
�A thirty-two,� Walsh admited. �But I haven�t even got it now. I pawned it six months ago for eating money when things were tough all over.�
�You�ll have to prove it,� Painter said uncompromisingly. �But don�t think any of this takes you off the hook, Shayne. I�ve got about a dozen charges against you, starting with obstruction of justice and ending up with a charge of assault that Mr. Barstow has already sworn out against you.�
�He pulled a gun on me before I hit him,� Shayne said mildly.
�Strictly in line of duty,� Peter Painter told him happily. �You were trespassing, had forced your way into the bank, and he knew you were a fugitive with a warrant out for your arrest. As an officer of the bank, he has a permit for the gun you claim he �pulled� on you, and he was doing his duty as a citizen when he attempted to hold you there while he called the police. You�re going to have one hell of a time wriggling out of that.�
Shayne grinned wryly and said, �Maybe. On the other hand, I figured it was a pretty good way to get him here in Miami tonight.�
He reached in his pocket and pulled out the second gun... the short-barreled .32 he had taken from Barstow in the bank. He laid it on the desk beside Buford�s automatic. �This the one he claims to have a permit for?�
�Is it, Mr. Barstow?� Painter turned encouragingly to the bank teller and he said, �I guess so. One just like that anyway. There were three of them that belonged to the bank. I haven�t a list of the serial numbers, but they�re on file.�
�I�m certainly not denying that this is the one I took away from Barstow. But before you put me in your jail, Petey, I suggest you do one thing. Have Ballistics check the bullet you took out of Carson with this gun.�
�You mean the bank�s thirty-two?� asked Painter incredulously, staring at both guns with narrowed eyes.
�Carson was shot with a thirty-two, wasn�t he?�
�Yes, but... are you implying...?�
�I�m not implying anything,� said Shayne flatly. �I�m telling you that Harvey Barstow killed Carson last night with that gun. Or one of the other similar guns in the bank that he had access to.�
�Barstow? But...�
�That�s crazy!� Barstow surged to his feet angrily. �I wasn�t even
�Belle Carson tells it differently,� growled Shayne. �You knew Carson was coming in to consult a private detective, but you didn�t know why. You admit you typed the letter making the appointment with me.�
�But I didn�t know why. He didn�t tell me...�
�That�s exactly it,� agreed Shayne. �You knew nothing about Whitey Buford or any of the Atlanta background. So your guilty conscience led you to believe Carson suspected your affair with his wife and that he was hiring me to get the evidence. So you followed him in to the city and gunned him on the street before he could keep his appointment with me this morning.�
�But I didn�t. You said yourself it had to be someone who knew where he�d be at eleven o�clock last night. How could I possibly have known?�
�You also typed the letter making the hotel reservation. You knew where he would be staying.�
�But I can prove by a dozen witnesses that I was in Denham up to some time after nine o�clock last night,� said Barstow excitedly. �I was at home alone after that because my family was away for the night, but I certainly wasn�t in here trailing Mr. Carson around the streets of Miami Beach all evening. Can�t you see how preposterous his charge is, Chief Painter?�
Peter Painter hesitated, pursing his thin lips doubtfully while his black eyes studied Shayne�s placid features with more than a little foreboding. Had it been anyone other than Michael Shayne making the accusation... were it not for the fact that too many times in the past the gaunt-faced redhead had turned the tables at the very last and emerged unscathed by proving just such a preposterous accusation as this, Painter would have gleefully leaped to the young man�s defense.
But as it was, he said slowly, �How are you going to get around that, Shamus? Even if you can prove what you say about Barstow having an affair with Mrs. Carson and that he suspected Carson was seeing you to break it up... even if you can prove all that for a motive what are you going to do about the witnesses who can place Barstow definitely in Denham up to nine o�clock last night?�
Shayne said carelessly, �It isn�t more than a two-hour drive. Plenty of time for him to get here and be waiting for Carson on that street corner at eleven o�clock.�
�But how could he place him there at that time? You concede that Carson didn�t make the appointment with Walsh until after he reached the city. Even the most perceptive of secretaries could not have known about that appointment in advance.�
�But he did know that Mr. Carson had a dinner reservation at Chez Dumont at nine o�clock because it was also made in advance by a letter he typed. Knowing his employer�s methodical and routine habits he could figure he�d be leaving the restaurant about eleven. So he was waiting for him.�
Shayne shrugged and went on impatiently, �Run a Ballistic check on the gun. That�s all you need to tie it up. And check back in Denham to find out what car Barstow used last night. You�ll find his wife had his car, so he must have borrowed or rented one. For God�s sake, do I have to tie
Peter Painter swallowed hard. He said thinly, �We�ll check, all right. If Mrs. Carson corroborates what she told you about having an affair with him...�
�She
The Denham policeman and one of Painter�s detectives leaped in fast to pull him back before he could get hold of a gun, and Painter strutted forward and barked orders for the teller to be locked up and charged with Carson�s murder.
The telephone on Painter�s desk rang as they were dragging Barstow away, and Painter scooped it up and said hello.
He listened briefly, drumming the fingers of his right hand on the desk-top and swivelling his eyes around to Shayne who slid his hip off the desk and stood up casually.
�He happens to be right here in my office,� Painter said thickly and with remarkable restraint. �Your secretary, Shayne.� He thrust the instrument toward the redhead who eased his hip down to the wood again and took it.
�Hi, angel. How�d you guess where to reach me this time of night?�
�I�ve been calling everywhere, Michael.� Lucy Hamilton�s voice was tearful. �I can�t even find Tim Rourke, and I�ve been hearing the most awful reports over the radio. I�ve got Lawyer Prentice standing by, Michael... with a bondsman. How... bad is it?�
�Not bad at all, angel,� Shayne reassured her. �Forget all about the lawyer and the bondsman. That is...� He hesitated, lifting a quizzical eyebrow at Peter Painter. �... I guess you can.�
�Go on,� said Painter, thin-lipped. �But if Whitey Buford dies you�ll face a manslaughter charge.�
�For capturing an escaped convict who murdered a prison guard?� asked Shayne incredulously. �Nuts.� Into the mouthpiece he said, �Get on your prettiest bib and tucker, Lucy. I�ve got a two hundred and fifty dollar retainer that I just earned... and it�s begging to be spent on champagne and caviar... with a modicum of brandy on the side to wash the taste of Painter�s jail out of my mouth.�